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ANDIATOROCTE 



The Eve of Lady Day on Lake George 

AND OTHER 

POEMS, HYMNS, AND MEDITATIONS IN 
VERSE 



BY 



/ 



The Rev. CLARENCE A. WALWORTH 

RECTOR OF ST. MARY's CHURCH, ALBANY, N. Y. 



NEW YORK AND LONDON 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
®fjE ^ttichcrbotker ^rcss 

1888 






COPYRIGHT BY 

CLARENCE A. WALWORTH 
1888 



Press of 

n. p. Pitnam's Sons 

New York 



CONTENTS 



Andiatorocte ; or, the Eve of Lady-Day on Lake 
George 



VJin^is.vjr. ....... 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 




i 


The English Sparrow 45 


Eternity .... 










53 


Pictures on the Mantel 










54 


Te Deum Laudamus . 










56 


Children at the Crib 










57 


Therein .... 










58 


The Saratoga Pines 










61 


Wretched Poverty . 










65 


Love with a Gun 










67 


The Days of Genesis 










69 


Night Watching 










73 


The Tramp 










74 


The Unknowable 










77 


Leave to Love . 










79 


The Immaculate Conception 










S4 


Beauty . . • . 










86 


A Letter . 










87 


True Love 










go 


The Christian Muse 










91 


MusA Extatica . 










95 


The Rational . 










100 


Maranatha 










102 


Scenes at the Holy Home 










104 


The Windigo 










no 


Papoose's Frolic 










114 


Adoro te Devote 










115 


Dies Ir/E 










116 



IV 



CONTENTS. 



Mid-Lent 

The Gathering of the Guild 
Parting of the Guild 
A Gradual Psalm 
The Daily Hours 
The Priestly Robe . 



MEDITATIONS IN VERSE 

The Problem of Life 

The One Thing Needful 

Omnia ad dei Gloriam 

The Salvation of the Soul 

The Insufficiency of Creatures 

BOCHlM .... 

Ash Wednesday 

Life Bread 

One by One 

Solitude and Silence 

The Following of Christ 

Yesterday .... 

To-Day .... 

To-Morrow 

Lost and Found 

The Wedding Garment . 

A Cry for a Home . 

Trustful and Simple Prayer 

The King of Hearts 

The Spirit to the Churches 

King David's Penance 

The Red River 

Gethsemane 

The Crown of Thorns . 

The Passion Flower 

The Bleeding Tree . 

The Interior Life . 

Christ Lost and Found . 

Rorate Cceli 

Palm-Sunday 

The Song of Songs . 

Feeling in Devotion 

Escapement 



CONTENTS. 



The Same Old Terms 
Overboard, All 
Far and Near . 
Remembrance of the Dead 
DoMiNus Regit Me . 
The Communicant 



PAGE 

191 

192 

194 

195 
ig8 



REVELATIONS OF DIVINE LOVE 

The Littleness of Creation 

Seeking and Beholding 

Jesus Our Heaven 

Benedicite Domine . 

The Royal Debtor . 

Game and Earnest . 

Joy and Pain 

Love's Greatest Pain 

How in Christ's Passion All Suffer 



205 
206 
2o3 
210 
212 
214 
217 
219 
221 



GRADUS AD TRINITA TEM ; OR, MEDITA TIONS 
ON THE INNER LIFE OF GOD 



The Unity of God 

The Active Life of God .... 

The Whole Life-Movement of God One Act 
Thought and Will the Constituent Elements 

OF Divine Action 

The Character of a Divine Thought 
Mind and Thought Distinct in One Life . 
The Genesis of Love ; or, the Procession of the 

Holy Ghost 

CiRCUMINCESSION 

The Homestead of the Trinity . 

Love Dealing with Mystery .... 



229 
230 



233 
235 
236 

23S 
239 
241 
242 



ANDIATOROCTE 

OR, 

THE EVE OF LADY-DAY ON LAKE GEORGE. 



ANDIATOROCTE; 



THE EVE OF LADY-DAY ON LAKE GEORGE. 



INTRODUCTION. 

All secluded by its trees 
From the world it would forsake, 
Where French Mountain bends its knees 
To gaze into the holy lake 
Stands a quiet convent, bosomed 
On a breast that loves it wxll. 
Bosomed in the craggy hill, 
As if there a flower had blossomed 
From the bosom of the hill. 
Scantily the trees conceal it. 
By some doubt, or timid feeling, 
Half unveiling, half concealing, 
In a mystery they reveal it. 
They but form a gentle eyelid 
Fringing the steep terrace there ; 
And the convent, half beguiled, 
Half retreating back to prayer, 
Looking over, looking under, 
(Saints, forgive all worldly wonder !) 
3 



4 ANDIA TOROCTE. 

Sees Lake George stretched far and near ; 

Sees the water pure and clear ; 

Sees reflected to her eyes, 

From its bosom clear and crystal, 

From its bosom pure and vestal. 

Holy legends of the skies. 

Dear St. Mary's, for his sake 
Who first named the Holy Lake,^ 
Christening with bleeding finger 
Font and penitent together, 
Ever keep thy sweet seclusion 
Free from secular intrusion. 
Leaning on the mountain's breast. 
Smiling there in trustful rest, 
Nestling in the wood that shields thee. 
Smiling to the sky that gilds thee. 
Calmly thoughtful, calmly blest. 

Ah ! betimes from that retreat. 
As the sun sinks down to rest, 
Throwing kisses from the west 
To the clouds, 't is passing sweet 
To watch the shadows in the sky. 
To watch the colors come and break 
Like blushes on a maiden's cheek. 
Pleased but disturbed by a fond eye. 
Will you listen for a minute ? 
Ere my rambling verse is o'er 
I will sing of this and more. 
You may find a pleasure in it. 

' Lake George, considered by the aborigines as an appen- 
dage to Lake Champlain, and by them called Andiatorocte, 
or The Tail of the Lake, was known to the early missionaries 
as Lake St. Sacrament, from the fact that Father Isaac Jogues 
baptized many savages in its waters. 



ANDIA TOROCTE. 5 

CANTO L 

[ Wherein the author vindicates his native land.'] 

The breath of August fills land, lake, and sky. 

It is the eve of Lady-Day. Nature knows well, 

And robes with scruple for the festival. 

All the long afternoon the clouds hang low 

In banks of smoke, or woolly balls of snow ; 

Or higher up stream out like spirit hair 

Combed into long thin tresses by the air. 

And witchingly betimes spots of the bluest blue 

Lie dimpled between flocons of white cloud. 

It is the way of skies to show more true 

When things of lower nature hide in shroud. 

'T is Heaven speaks now ; and all the gloom or 

glow 
Above is mirror'd in the lake below. 

Coquettish nature ! Whiles the placid lake 
Changes the quaker surface of her cheek 
To vexed impatience, as the saucy wind 
Whispers bold nothings to her maiden mind. 
First, all is " yea " ; then, like offended prude, 
With sudden dignity she draws her hood, 
And cloisters her sweet face behind a frown. 
And the land too — how proudly are displayed 
Its jewels, island, mountain, grove, and glade ! 
(Trees hide, thank God, railroad, hotel, and town.) 
Tea Island nestles near the wes':ern shore, 
With strange tales of long-buried ore. 
Northward lie Diamond Isle, the Sisters Three ; 
And, hugging close Tongue Mountain, one can see 
Dome Island's round back. In a chain hang they ; 



6 ANDIATOROCTE. 

Green emeralds on the neck of the East Bay 
They lie. At first the nearest seems most fair. 
But gaze awhile ; the intermediate air, 
Which colors distance with its own thin hue, 
Will show it soon, less overcast, more true, 
And make the eye more lovingly rest there. 

I 've gazed on many a lofty, lovely scene 

In other lands, on England's oaks, lawns, gardening ; 

Cathedrals preaching old faith o'er again ; 

On Ben Venue and An, their hard brows hardening 

Against the pleading innocence of Loch Katrine, 

As Scotland's iron lords frowned on the sin 

Of joyous loveliness in Scotland's queen. 

And I have seen Killarney's mountains tower 

Over chained lakes below, born of their tears. 

Dreaming that haggard want can carry fears 

To mammon, or sad beauty charm its power. 

I 've seen the crystal cones of Switzerland, 

Where like the pinnacles of heaven they stand 

Above the clouds, as claiming foothold there. 

Naught holding from the earth, sons of the air. 

I 've seen the blue Danau, the Rhine, the Rhone, 

The groves of Ceylon breathing o'er the waves. 

High Fusiyama lift her fluted cone, 

Followed the sea into Bermuda's caves. 

Walked where the Gulf Stream crowds the Atlantic 

back 
Upon the strand of Florida with wave and wreck ; 
But near or far naught lovelier I know 
Than the fair vision sky and mountains show 
To sweet St. Mary's leaning o'er the lake. 

There are who say our scenery, though fair. 
Is mute : no old traditions haunt the land ; 



A NDIA TOROCTE. J 

That hill, cave, cove, wave, grove, and strand 
Send no such thrilling echoes through the air 
As stir the soul to romance on the Rhine, 
At that high seat whence Roland saw the earth 
Cast on his love below at Nonnenwerth ; 
Or where the ivy on the Avon, Thames, or Tyne, 
Circles with loving arm some crumbling wall ; 
Or where dim Highland wraiths rise from the mead, 
Or mad O'Donahoe spurs his phantom steed 
Across Lough Leane into a rocky stall. 
They say, while every hill, or vale, or shore 
In Europe breathes with memories of the past, 
Our land alone, dead to all legendary lore. 
All the more barren seems for that 't is vast. 
Ah ! they belie the land. Precious and rare 
Unfold her old traditions to the scholar's care, 
And poet's tremulous eye, who reverent seek, 
Who tread her woods in silence, and let silence 
speak. 

Stranger ! Here lies a route of braves. Algonquin 

bands 
By this shore passed to ravage Mohawk lands, 
And light the Hudson with the fires of war ; 
And cheeks grew pale in fortified Quebec, 
To hear of Kaniongas on this lake. 
A song like this was carried wide and far 
When Agnie councils rose with blood in the eye, 
And Kryn, or Hendrick, led the battle cry. 

MOHAWK WAR SONG. 

Did I not hear the drum ? 
Hist ! Wyandots, I come, 
Wah-hee ! Ho-ha ! ' 

* Wah-liee means in French Oui-da; in English "This is how 
it is." The singer means to say : Here I am to speak for my- 



8 A AW I A TOR OCTE. 

From the lodges of the Oknaho 
The wily river doth creep, 
To rush at Cohoes with a leap 
Into the valley below. 
So leap I on the foe, 
Shouting my battle song. 
To battle I belong. 

Ho ! Kanionkehaka ! Ho ! 
Wah-hee ! Ho-ha ! 

Quatoghies sleep ! close every eye. 
Are these doves that cleave the sky ? 

Wah-hee ! Ho-ha ! 
Are they going North to brood ? 
No. They are eagles of war ; 
Konochioni come from afar. 
Looking for eagles' food. 
Dogs ! I am thirsty. Give me blood ! 
Ha ! keep your lodges safe. Ere long 
I '11 shake them with a Mohawk song. 
Ho ! Kanionkehaka ! Ho ! 
Wah-hee ! Ho-ha ! 

Comes the red daylight now. 
Strikes the earth on its brow. 
Wah-hee ! Ho-ha ! 
So come I like fiery day ; 
I come with a lighted brand ; 
I come with hatchet in my hand, 
To fall upon the prey. 

self. Kanionkehaka is the name by which the Mohawks des- 
ignate themselves. The Hurons were sometimes called Qua- 
toghies, sometimes Wyandots. The Oknaho, or Mohawks of 
the Wolf family, occupied the banks of the river between 
Spraker's Basin and Fort Plain, the site of their castle fre- 
quently changing between these points. Niio, or Rawenniio, 
is the name in Iroquois for God. 



A NDIA TOR OCTE. 9 

My body I cast away. 
My soul is strong, 
No fear is in my song. 

Ho ! Kanionkehaka ! Ho ! 
Wah-hee ! Ho-ha ! 

Brothers, will ye shrink and fail ? 
My heart is eager for the trail. 

Wah-hee ! Ho-ha ! 
Warriors, I am a full-grown man. 
See ! on my breast I wear 
The teeth and claws of the bear, 
The totem of my clan. 
Braves that saw them last year ran. 
Quatoghies ! Am I wrong ? 
I '11 show you my claws again ere long. 
Ho ! Kanionkehaka ! Ho ! 
Wah-hee ! Ho-ha ! 

The trail leads northward — here ! 
Cloudless is the sky, and clear. 

Wah-hee ! Ho-ha ! 
Merrily smiles the great Niio. 
For every blow I strike in the post, 
I will send a screaming ghost 
To the misty lodges below. 
Or breathe out mine to the foe. 
To battle I belong, 
Hark, Rawenniio, to my song ! 
Ho ! Kanionkehaka ! Ho ! 

Wah-hee ! Ho-ha ! 

Behind this convent, and behind the hill. 
Far eastward stretches out a level plain 
Lovely to distant view, but nearer seen 
The ground is low and wet ; Burgoyne learned it 
well. 



10 ANDIA TOROCTE. 

Hapless as he, Dieskau at an earlier day- 
Led from the north, with martial fire and pride, 
His French and Indians, skirting the hill side 
To find the wiliest and the nearest way 
To strike the English garrison in yonder fort. 
Its ruins once were picturesque and rare ; 
But now in shame they crouch beneath the stare 
Of diamonded vulgarity, and lisping sport, 
That better love to hear the steamer snort. 
Oh, I remember when this south beach here, 
Of all the lake shore, lone and lovely smiled. 
In semicircle true, fond arms though wild 
It stretched around its love from Caldwell pier 
To Crosby side, and not a road, or fence, or ditch, 
Or sign of tenement, field, plough, or spade, 
Or human meddling marred the forest shade. 
Or scared the ripples breaking on the beach. 
A sigh for thee, O disenchanted shore, 
Thy beauty is no more ! 

Well, leave we there the desecrated site. 

A two-mile walk around the southern knoll 

That terminates French Hill, leads to a lonely pool 

Strewed with pond-lilies velveted in white. 

The only fragrant things that care to stay 

Where all of life beside preaches decay. 

'T is said that these are prayers. Here they 

remain 
To plead for the unburied soldiers of Dieskau, 
Who sleep unshriven in the mould below. 
No requiem had they ; no priestly train, 
No drops of holy spray, no consecrated rings 
Of incense rose to heaven. But there are wings 
That beat the air unseen, and subtle strings 
That intersect the earth and sea like wire, 
And carry secret whispers to desire. 



ANDIA TOROCTE, 1 1 

So webbed and warped is life, so thought is knit 

with things. 
Pray, lilies, pray ! cease not to intercede ; 
Spread your green pads, turn your white breasts to 

heaven. 
Ah ! who can know when prayers outgrow their need ? 
Ah ! who can say when sin is all forgiven ? 

Hard by the road that skirts the " Bloody Pond," 

A granite monument records the name ^ 

Of one who fell in the same fray. To fame 

A better plea among the Berkshire hills is found, 

Where past twin colleges the Housatonic flows. 

A little farther on, grappling with foes, 

King Hendrick, mighty Kanionga, fell. 

In war most brave, at council-Are most wise. 

Let the old Ritual of the League reveal 

How nations mourn when a true patriot dies. 

AN IROQUOIS DIRGE. 



Thus our brothers go. 
Founders of the League of Peace. 
Ye who blessed it to increase. 
Listen to our woe ! 

Haih ! haih ! 
Our bitter woe. 

II. 
Fast they go before. 
The thickets grow anew 
Where the green corn grew 
That grows no more. 

Haih ! haih ! 
That grows no more. 
^ Col. Ephraim Williams, founder of Williams College. 



12 ANDIATOROCTE. 



III. 



Mute are they and still. 
Warriors fall like falling rain. 
They are gathered in like grain 
From the lone hill ; 

Haih ! haih ! 
The desert hill. 

IV. 

Heavy is our song. 
The Long Lodge feels the north. 
From flaming hearth to hearth 
The leap is long. 

Haih ! haih ! 
The leap is long, 

V. 

O king of war and pest ! 
Across the deep dark gulf 
Thou leapest like a hungry wolf 
To seize our best ; 

Haih ! haih ! 
Braves and best. 

VI. 

Under the hemlock trees, 
That bow like bowing grief, 
Sits the widow of a chief 
Hugging her knees ; 

Haih ! haih ! 
Her chilly knees. 

VII. 

Her heart is sore. 

She thinks of her helpless brood. 



ANDIATOROCTE, 1 3 

Children ! the hand that brought ye food, 
Will it bring more ? 

Haih ! haih ! 
Will it bring more ? 

VIII. 

Nay, wondering eyes, 
More ye ask than grief can know ; 
More ye seek than life can show. 
Were ye more wise. 

Haih ! haih ! 
Ah ! who is wise ? 

IX. 

Hollow out his tomb. 
Seat him upright in the grave. 
A true Konochione brave 
Leaps at the drum, 

Haih ! haih ! 
The signal drum. 

X. 

Heap his sack well. 
Shall a great chieftain's ghost 
For want of flesh or corn be lost 
On the long trail, 

Haih ! haih ! 
The weary trail ? 

XI. 

Give him knife and bow 
And arrows. What, if bound 
To the far distant hunting-ground. 
He meet a foe, 
Haih ! haih ! 
Some prowling foe ! 



1 4 A NDIA TOR OCTE. 

XII. 

Hail ! grandsires, hail ! 
Ye built our cabin long. 
Ye made our union strong. 
Say, shall it fail ? 

Haih ! haih ! 
Shall the league fail ? 

XIII. 

Grandsires, we are few. 

These wampum belts in hand, ye swore 

To make our league endure. 

Are the tokens true ? 

Haih ! haih ! 
And we so few ? 

XIV. 

Hark ! sires, yet stay. 
O make our league of peace remain, 
And every link that binds the chain ! 
Though chiefs are clay, 

Haih ! haih ! 
And pass away. 

CANTO n. 

^l^Some Jottings from the ''Jesuit Rclations."'\ 

Seest thou where Caldwell lies direct in line 
With Prospect Mountain ? Seest thou the turn 
Where opens the dark valley leading from Luzerne ? 
Seest thou the Abenaki camp like moccasin 
Upon the mountain's foot ? These are akin 
To those fierce redskins who with Montcalm came 
To storm Fort William Henry, and to their leader's 
shame 



ANDTA TOROCTE. 1 5 

Deluged yon terrace with their prisoners* blood. 
Beads now they barter where the old fort stood. 
Even so degenerate. Vulgar drink to-day 
Avenges life once shed in nobler fray. 
Drop now thine eye to yonder pier of plank 
Where idle boats dance merrily to the bank. 
Within a cove of that same shore one day 
A light canoe, among the bushes hid away, 
Waited the coming of an Indian maid, 
A fugitive, dear now to pious fame, 
Who sacrificed, sweet zealot, all to Jesus' name. 
And northward by this route to the St. Lawrence fled. 
Would'st know the legend ? Read it on every rock 
That lines this lake. The terraced banks of the 

Mohawk, 
From Fonda to the clattering factory town 
Where the choked Choctanunda plunges down. 
Know the tale well, Galway and Middlegrove, 
Greenfield and Hadley, and the mountain clove 
Where the North River bursts his granite bonds. 
Ask freely ; from land, lake, and stream echo re- 
sponds. 

TEGAKWITA. 

O Gandawaga ! was it thou 
That, peering through primeval shade, 
Saw the first life dawn on the brow 
Of our sweet Kanionga maid ? 

Echo ! Echo ! 
If it be really truly so. 
And if that cherished name you know. 
Was it Takwita ? 

Ita. Ita.' 

' It should not be forgotten that this echo belongs to the 
Church missionary times, and that " Ita " in Latin means 
"Yes." 



ANDTA TOROCTE. 

Oh ! Kayadutta, was it here, — 
Is that her spring above the road, 
And did its water pure and clear 
Give the dear girl new-born to God ? 

Echo ! Echo ! 
Leap these two centuries like a doe, 
And name the name that well you know. 
Was it Takwita ? 

Ita. Ita. 

Luzerne, is thine the mountain pass 
Received her footprints from the vale 
Where creeps the Kayaderoseras ? 
Saw ye her uncle on the trail ? 

Echo ! Echo ! 
Saw ye the knife and wrathful brow ? 
Heard ye the drip of a canoe 
Speeding Takwita ? 

Ita. Ita. 

Methinks I see her passing now 
Along yon shore, wrapt in the shade 
Of trees that from the bank bend low 
Their boughs to screen the holy maid. 

Echo ! Echo ! 
Speak my name softly in her ear, 
And say, a heart that holds her dear 
Signals Takwita. 

Ita. Ita. 

Saw ye the great St. Lawrence leap 
Like panther leaping from his lair ? 
Saw ye a maiden vigil keep 
Upon the bank, with fast and prayer 1 

Echo ! Echo ! 
Why this high cross and lowly mound ? 



A NDIA TOR OCTE, \y 

Ends the trail here ? Nay, look beyond. 
Heaven holds Takwita. 
Ita. Ita. 

Will you go farther back for histories 
To make our country luminous ? Well, such abound ; 
And witchery far more witching here is found 
In truthful story than the idle mysteries 
Of fable yield. The Jesuit " Relations " tell 
How, at an earlier time, seeking for foes, 
A party of fierce Iroquois pushed their canoes 
Along Lake George, Champlain, the sly Sorel, 
The broad St. Lawrence, to St. Peter's Lake. 
Fatal mischance it was that then and there 
Brought richest life and treasure to their snare. 
Twenty canoes came freighted from Quebec 
With Huron braves and French, a Christian fleet 
Returning to St. Mary's Mission on the Wye. 
Ah ! many found high mission there — to die ; 
Some, captives in the Mohawk villages, to meet 
Through torture, mutilation, fire, a later death. 
Calling on Jesus with their latest breath. 
Hail ! sacred lives, to faith dear evermore, 
Etienne Totiri, Thondatsaa, Paul, Theodore, 
Eustache Aharistari, Theondechoren, and his niece, 
Teresa Wyonhaton. Couture, long a thrall 
At Teionontogen, to our times of peace 
Transmits a bishop to the see of Montreal ; ' 
And, names more memorable still, the '' prayer " 
Counts Father Jogues and Rene Goupil there. 

RENE GOUPIL. 

Know ye the fountains that feed the Schoharie, 
Where cradled she lies in the Kaaterskill rocks ? 

' The late Archbishop Bourget was a descendant of William 
Couture the captive. 



I 8 ANDIA TOROCTE. 

Saw ye at Tribes' Hill the sweet stream marry 
Her placid life to the wild Mohawk's ? 

In the angle 

Where they mingle, 
Stands the cross of Auriesville, 
Stands a little oratory 

On the summit of a hill. 
It beckons, speaks ; it bids you kneel. 
It is full of a sweet story 
Of a martyr now in glory. 

Of a saint, Rene Goupil. 

Come, go with me thither. We '11 steal through 

the bushes ; 
We '11 climb the steep bank where their lodges stood. 
I '11 show you the shells of their feasts, and the 

ashes 
That blacken the ground where their fires glowed. 
Who go thither 
Still may gather 
Pipes, and bowls, and wampum beads. 
Bones of deer and bear and otter. 

Hammers, axes, arrow-heads. 
To me there 's blood that bleeds there still. 
As the plough drags through the furrow, 
Still, methinks, the red drops follow 

Where they dragged Rene Goupil. 

There yet stands the hill where the two prayed 

together, 
Jogues, mournful survivor, and Rene the slain ; 
Here once stood the gate where the gentle lay- 
brother 
Bent down to the hatchet that rent his brain. 
The rivulet 
Is running yet ; 



A NDIA TOROCTE. 1 5 

The same ravine slopes to it still ; 
Torrents through it still are carried, 

When quick showers flood the hill, 
As the old '' Relations " tell. 
There by savage hatred hurried, 
There by loving fingers buried, 

Rest the ashes of Goupil. 

Say not America's saints are all foreign. 
That martyrs have left no rich blood on our sod. 
On the atlas of souls Lake George is the highroad 
Of heroes that hastened to die for God. 
Spirits rally 
In the valley 
Of the Kanionga still ; 
Oneiouts, and Goiogouen, 

Onondagas of the Hill, 
Where long lay the buried bell ; 
Sonontouans — brave, wife, maiden ; — 
Many trails that lead to Eden 

Lead from thine, Rene Goupil ! 



Gleamed there no sacred truth on these dark for- 
esters 
Before the Black Robe to their lodges came ? 
Are not the stars all tuneful choristers, 
Singing to silent souls the Maker's name ? 
What are the clouds but scrolls of sacred song ? 
What are the woods but Bibles bound in green, 
That speak to pious thoughts of the unseen ? 
These forests had their bards. They gave a tongue 
To rocks, and trees, and belts of beaded bark. 
They sang of hunting, war, love's fitful tears 
Of joy or woe. Oft, rising from the dark 
Traditionary lore of slavish fears, 



20 ANDIATOROCTE. 

They heard low wooing on their forest path, 
That voice by which all being being hath. 
Ah ! think you, that far-penetrating grace 
Which reaches all that hangs in time and space 
However lone, brought to this wilderness 
No gift for love in aching dreariness ? 
Is Heaven too far away to speak again 
When hearts thus plead in loving pain ? 

KE-WE-GE-WAUN. 

That which I seek I always loved. 

Love bent the bough 
Which swung my infant cries to sleep. 

Love leads me now. 
I seek a friend who hides from me. 

Where is he then ? 
This long long while I find no track 

Of his moccasin. 
I find him not in the green-leaf lodge. 

Is he on the lake ? 
I shade my sight. There his canoe 

Has left no wake. 
I lay my ear to the earth. No sound. 

Where has he gone ? 
I cry into the ear of the dark : 

Ke-we-ge-waun ! ^ 
All round the circle of the sky 

His voice I hear. 
Could he feel the beating of my heart, 

He would appear. 
O let him rise above the hill 

Into the air ! 
O let him come from behind the cloud, 

If he be there ! 

^ I wish to go into your lodge. 



A NDIA TOR OCTE. 21 

Low sounds drop from the happy camps 

Beyond the moon. 
I 'm sick of all this waiting ; 

Will he come soon ? 
O Father, take me to thy lodge ! 

Sore to be gone, 
My heart sends out this far-off cry : 

Ke-we-ge-waun ! 

CANTO III. 

\_Ijtdian Magic and Divination^ 

From the sweet-scented air and cooling shade 
Of this piazza, northward cast your eye, 
And follow up yon chain of isles that lie 
Like emeralds on a fair breast displayed. 
In line they lie strung out, as in the wake 
Of some canoe. Lost were they maybe in the 

flight 
Of some fair giantess who, seized with fright, 
Her frantic paddle plied upon the lake, 
All heedless of what fell from her fair neck. 
'T was in the ancient days, you know, when Oki 

here 
Their councils held. Some gathered on the height 
Where fair Mt. Prospect sweeps the atmosphere, 
Embracing in its ken, not only this fair sheet 
Of innocently cradled water at its feet, 
But far-stretched valleys, clustering giant hills. 
The Adirondacks, serpent Hudson, and the pale 

Kaatskills. 
Other and darker spirits met betimes 
Where Mt. Black, moody monster, lent his screen 
Of hollow flank, and darkly-scarred ravine, 
To demon dances preluding wild crimes. 



22 ANDIA TOROCTE. 

Close gullied in the hill, bedded in bog, 

And mingling smoke with the dense mountain fog, 

In ancient times a lodge of saplings stood, 

Saplings bent inward to a ridge, and tied. 

No difference it knew of roof and side. 

But stood a cone of branches, bark, and mud. 

Here dwelt in former days a Josakeed, 

Grim sorcerer. His birthplace, native speech, and 

breed 
None knew. Some said an Oki all begot 
Out of the hill — man, bog, and hut. 
All feared his anger to incur ; 
Though many sought, none loved the sorcerer. 
Wolves gazed in wondering at the door. 
Lithe rattlesnakes crawled free across the floor, 
Warmed freely at his fire. He heeded not. 
I give you here the song which, wild and weird, 
Rang forth betimes from out his dismal hut 
To terrify the crowd that stood about, 
Fond clinging to the magic which they feared. 

THE JOSAKEED. 

I, the Josakeed, sit in my lodge. 
Womb, birth, breast, breath, 
Love, hate, life, death, 
Game, war, I judge. 

What are these so thin and white ? 

Spirits of the lofty light. 

What are these that chill me so ? 

Spirits of the fog and snow. 

Why do they groan ? 

Because I dragged them fast and far 

Through earth and air. 

Look at this bone. 



1 



A NDIA TOR OCTE, 23 

This was a warrior's thigh ; 

This was his arm ; 

Each carries a mighty charm. 

Crossed thus, the charm I magnify. 

When I beat m)"- magic drum 

With this, the living I bid ; 

With this I call the dead ; 

And they come. 

When I cross the two with a prayer, 

And draw with my finger the sign I hate, 

The stab I give will carry fate 

Through the air. 

I call to the lake to send me rain ; 

I send it home to the lake again. 

I call the thunder from the west ; 

It rises with a roar ; 

Comes trampling over the prairie floor ; 

Comes crowding the sky with its breast ; 

Comes trembling to my door ; 

Sinks growling to its rest. 

A lover whistles from the maize ; 

The lodge-fire casts a wondering blaze 

Upon a maiden's scorn. 

I point to her this feather ; 

Heugh ! See two dark heads bend together 

Between the rows of corn. 

Ask ye, by what spell 

I gathered this control ? 

A part ye may know ; the whole 

I dare not tell. 

I took the lip of a moose. 
The folds of a buzzard's neck. 
The skin from a dead man's back. 
The hair of a drowned papoose. 



24 ANDIA TOROCTE. 

From the belly of a snake 

I scooped the swarming brood. 

Green leeches in the lake 

Clung to my legs ; they are good. 

I added, to ensure the charm, 

The froth of a frog. 

And from the tongue of a dog 

I tore the worm. 

These, mingled well together, 

In a hole of my floor I heaped. 

And on the mixture I leaped, and leaped 

Till I felt th^ spirits gather. 

Three days I fasted without food ; 

Three days I fasted without sleep ; 

Three days I wet that heap 

With my blood, 

Dipping this bone and plume. 

With the bone I beat my drum ; 

With my head I beat the ground. 

Giddily I whirled around, 

Praying for the gift to come. 

Here the spirits found me ; 

Angry and unwilling. 

Trembling, leaping, yelling. 

Formed a ring around me. 

Here must they stay, 

The Josakeed must obey. 

Till the spell is spent, and my magic boon 

Shall die away with the dying moon. 

Speak, my children, say your need. 

What ask ye of the Josakeed ? 

A different cast from these low boastful knaves 
Stand forth the Prophets of the Meda. They, 
High chieftans among chiefs, braves among braves, 



ANDIATOROCTE. 2$ 

Wrap themselves up in mystery to gain sway 
Where sachems sit in council, paint for war. 
The Meda is a secret college branching far, 
With lore traditionary drawn from earth, 
And much of fable claiming higher birth. 
Its sages know the picture tongue, an art 
Which challenges our wonder on old rocks. 
Or hid away in trees near to the heart, 
And our more modern literature mocks. 
To us the character seems wild and rude, 
Without design, as drawn in idle mood. 
But those that the Medawin know, can read 
Legends therein of councils, hunts, and love. 
Yea by them see long buried armies move, 
And on old battle-grounds see warriors bleed. 
Often in truth, these Meda bards will sing 
In lofty strains, to their free fancies given, 
Things air-born, holding naught of earth or heaven. 
'T is thus betimes their airy words take wing. 

SONG OF THE MEDA PROPHET. 

I sit on the globe as on a throne. 

With a hand I hold the sky. 

I pierce the heavens with my eye ; 

Its curtains part to me alone, 

And far events come nigh. 

Ha ! ha ! what do I see ! 

Ha, ha ! what do I hear ! 

The moons come rolling down to me 

Like cubs before the loping year. 

My children, I shall be cold 

Ere ye behold 

What to me is already here. 

The sun may rise ; the sun may set ; 
The sun may come and go. 



26 ANDIA TOROCTE. 

The sun is not the Manito, 

But a spark from his calumet. 

See ! see ! he looks this way. 

Ha, ha ! what does he say ? 

Says the sun : " I walk on half the sky, 

It throbs like a mighty drum 

If I hide my eye with a frown. 

When no longer I look down 

Upon the earth, the Oki come, | 

Bestriding the foul weather. 

They spit red needles of light. 

And in one blanket thick and tight 

Sew the black clouds together." 

He says : "O Prophet, hail ! " 

Hush ! The Prophet sees you not. 

To me you are naught. 

I look beyond the little trail 

Whereon you trot. 

Ha, ha ! All know the Meda king. 

All bow ; the earth and the wood, 

The sunshine, and the weeping cloud. 

Their Oki watch my enchanted ring. 

The trees nod as I walk beneath. 

" Sago ! " they sigh, 

And follow me with sidelong eye. 

Chatter the crags like chattering teeth. 

When a hasty sign I make. 

If I but touch my magic drum. 

The demons leap from their mountain home, 

And make my lodge poles shake ; 

But me they move not. Far away, 

Through cloud and mist, the Prophet's mind 

Sees deeper mysteries unwind, 

And unborn years to him are gray. 



A NDIA TOR OCTE. 2 7 

The superstitious red man's spirit sees 

A throbbing life within the heart of trees ; 

A life intelligent that thinks, that sings. 

Secrets of earth and sky, unutterable things 

Murmured in gentle music, fill the air ; 

And souls that walk in silence, listening there, 

Hear voices issuing from some tuneful tree. 

Within whose bark lies hid the mystery. 

But what it says no man can tell. 

Only the Prophet, the Wabeno, has the skill 

To hold the tree in converse, and unlock the spell. 

Behold translated from the Ojibway tongue 

What once a singing tree to a Diviner sung. 

THE WABENO TREE. 

Hark ! hark ! hark ! hark ! 

What is this wonderful thing ? 

Can the Tamarack sing ? 

I hold my ear to the quivering bark. 

It says : " I 'm a Wabeno tree. 

For my life I sing ; 

From my life I wring 

These sounds that ooze from me. 

They are songs from below 

Which I alone can comprehend, 

I and my Wabeno friend 

To whom I show 

The secrets of the Manito. 

My friend walks into my magic ring ; 

He stands on the north, on the mossy side, 

Where the spirits from the cavern hide 

In my shade, and bids me sing. 

When the Wabeno inclines to me — 

My friend the Wabeno signs to me — 

No longer to the ground I cling 



28 A NDIA TOR OCTE. 

With foot and claw, 
But free into the air I spring ; 
I leap, I laugh, I dance, I sing. 
Obedient to the Meda law. 
I am a faithful forest tree ; 
What is law to all is law to me." 

'^ CANTO IV. 

\^Some glimpses of Convent lifeP[ 

Hark ! from the sky a call, earnest and deep. 
Softly the silent lake reflects the sound. 
Sweetly it sinks into the woods around. 
Then drops, like faithful duty done, to sleep. 
Fell ever on the ear such silver spray ? 
How quick to flood the air ! How quick to die 
away ! 

'T is but the Angelus — the signal of a bell. 

Ay ! true ; but who are signalled thus, and why ? 

Know ye what makes yon iron throat to swell ? 

Earth interlocking once with the deep sky. 

Eternity was born ch'ild to the hour ; 

Men saw the cradle of infinity. 

Such is the burden of that loud outcry 

Which leaps into the air from yonder tower. 

At sunrise, noon, and sunset going forth 

O'er mountain chain and sea, circling the earth, 

Leaping from spire to spire, the Angelus is heard. 

Meek worshippers, low bending at the word. 

With reverent knee, and with glad unison 

Of heart and lip, repeat the Angel's benison. 

A Gabriel in the belfry gives the key. 

Three silver peals repeated, three times three. 

Arrested by the summons, loving millions pray ; 

And these are the words that all in secret say : 



ANDIA TOROCTE. 29 

THE ANGELUS. 

God's Angel came with word and sign 
To Mary of a child divine. 

Hail Mary, full of grace. And hail 

The fruit of thy dear womb ! 
God's Mother, pray for us this day, 
And when our death shall come. 

Lo me the handmaid of the Lord ! 
Be it according to thy word. 

Hail Mary, full of grace ! And hail 

The fruit of thy dear womb ! 
God's Mother, pray for us this day, 
And when our death shall come. 

The WORD divine did flesh assume, 
And made this woful world His home. 
Hail Mary, full of grace ! And hail 

The fruit of thy dear womb ! 
God's Mother, pray for us this day, 
And when our death shall come. 

The chime that seemed to idlers on the shore 
A fairy note descending from the skies. 
To please the sentimental ear, far otherwise 
Fell in the circle where, at the same hour. 
Low bent the Brethren at Mary's shrine. All rose. 
To them its clangor was the sign to close 
Their silent meditation with the Angel's prayer. 
Thence, while with downcast eyes they still revolve 
Slow gathered wreaths of thought, desire, resolve. 
They wind their way in silence down the stair. 
And up the rustic walk, through the fresh air. 
To the refectory. Picture no lavish hall 
Where hearts, like harps, may be unstrung again. 



30 AND I A TOROCTE. 

Where thought gives way to idle tongue again, 
And recollection vanishes beyond recall. 
Silence still rules the hour. What nature needs 
She freely takes ; meanwhile the spirit feeds 
With unabated hungering. But first on high 
They lift a prayer to Heaven, nay, beads of song, 
A cord of grateful homage, freely strung 
With antiphons, short versicles, and quick reply. 
Their voices, like the lingerings of a dream, 
Stir my soul yet. I give you here the theme ; 
But all the life, soul, inspiration, power, 
Are gone, with the sweet influence of that holy hour. 



OCULI OMNIUM. 
(Psalm cxliv., 15.) 

The eyes of all are waiting, 

Waiting on Thee, Lord ; 

Waiting for the daily word 

That gives a world of pensioners their board. 

Eyes through the water watching. 

Eyes in the pathless air. 

Eyes gleaming from the forest lair ; 

All hungry eyes that look to Thee for fare. 

Lord, it is wonderful 

How all the living live ! 

How Thou canst so much give ! 

Where multitudes so many want, how all receive ! 

Oh ! Thou art bountiful. 

Vast is Thy hall ; 

Vast is the daily call ; 

Yet lo, before the evening falls Thou feedest all. 



A NDIA TOR OCTE. 3 1 

Lord, our eyes are waiting, 
Waiting for living bread. 
Where so vast a board is spread, 
Among the rest, O Lord, let us be fed. 

The benediction ended, reverential hands 

Unclasp a book that on the lectern stands. 

It is the Martyrology, volume of precious dates. 

Each day throughout the year commemorates 

Some golden life sealed at the passing breath. 

All its nativities begin at death — 

The last faint step, the first bright fluttering. 

When Saints enfranchised spread to Heaven white 

wing. 
And emigrate to God. Here sacred story rings 
The passing bell, and to the listener sings 
How Martyrs shed their blood, Confessors bleed- 
ing tears. 
How Virgins saved the buds from their young 

years 
To wear at the great bridal, how lone hermits 

strove 
By conquering the will, to shape it to true love. 
Hail, sweet astronomy of holy hearts ! 
Saints are our stars ; and guided by their light, 
Paths gleam along the billows, as if night 
Were brighter day, and the sky hung with charts. 

Not long the evening meal. Again a grateful 

prayer ; 
And breaking the long silence, all descend 
The hill again. With them let us too wend 
Our way to the piazza. 'T is from there 
The convent looks across Lake George's breast, 
And up the hill-side, into the nodding West. 
The hour approaches when the imperial Sun, 



32 



ANDIA TOROCTE. 



His round of daily supervision done, 
Among the Adirondacks goes to rest. 
Sky, cloud, hill, lake, all urgently invite. 
Come, let us join with them to bid the King " Good- 
night." 

CANTO V. 

\A Sunset on Lake George. ^ 

All through the afternoon, drooping at ease, 

Like canvas loosely clewed, the clouds hung low, 

Or higher up mustered in balls of snow. 

Or higher still, combed by a freer breeze 

Into thin streamers, stretched out far before. 

A fleet of clouds, the admiral ashore. 

All seemed uncertain what to do. 

All waited for the word to go. 

But no word came. The heavens at our return 

Are little changed, save that the sun is lower ; 

His fierce white eye has lost its blinding power, 

And with a sadder passion now doth burn. 

What ails the king ? Why does the monarch 

mourn ? 
He mourns because the hour is nigh 
When he must leave the heavens alone 
With the swarthy night, and the passionless moon. 
He will throw back kisses by and by. 
We must wait to see how the clouds will glow. 
And burning blushes come and go 
To be courted so by the lord of the sky. 

Behind the northwest bay the misty cowls 
That cap the hills oft change to crowns of light. 
And in close sympathy the bay itself grows bright. 
Or darkens its fair features into scowls. 
Sweet is it whiles to see the sky look through 



A NDIA TOR OCTE. 33 

Torn patches of white cloud with eyes of blue, 
The blue of Italy, Our heavens darker show, 
And far more softly blue, when curtained so. 
Mirror of all above. Lake George lies calm and still 
In borrowed loveliness, the loan of sky and hill. 

The evening grows. All of departing day 

That still remains is gathered in the west. 

Descending slow the sun with proud survey 

Looks backward over the mountain crest. 

Ah ! we shall have a grand display 

Of art divine when he is gone, 

When the curtains o'er his couch are drawn. 

The sky will show its rarest scenery, 

The clouds will robe in all their finery. 

As down he slides how his circle swells ! 

He sinks, fast sinks to his bed in the hills ; 

We see him move ; we follow his glide ; 

We measure his motion by palpable drop ; 

The giant Adirondacks open wide 

Their granite jaws to swallow him up. 

The woods that struggle in his rays 

With amorous joy are all ablaze. 

A momentary glory : lo ! the great sun dies 

With no color of beauty in his eyes. 

The lake below lies desolate and chill ; 

Gray shadows climb to the edge of the hill ; 

The listless clouds hang overhead, 

All unconcerned that the night doth fall ; 

Little they care to festoon his bed. 

He dies ! he dies ! and now he is dead. 

We shall have no sunset, after all. 

Beshrew my hasty heart and slanderous tongue ! 
I have done to the sweet heavens wrong. 
See that quick glow ! Some painter's brush 



34 ANDIA TOROCTE, 

Has changed the scowl of the sky to a blush ; 

And now, as they catch their monarch's eye 

The clouds wake up with a flush, 

And hang out their richest upholstery. 

How rapidly the west unrolls 

Its drapery, spreads forth its glorious folds ! 

To what shall I liken the display ? 

A ship that crowding all her canvas flings 

Forth to the breeze a full attire of wings ; 

Alas ! the quicker to speed away. 

Spread all ! speed on ! no time to loiter. 

Show all your wealth ; festoon ! festoon ! 

And make this twilight hour brighter 

Than the bright afternoon. 

Let nature spare no art to feed 

The hunger of devotion, 

Though the fond sky should burn and bleed 

Through surfeit of emotion. 

Let a full canopy be spread 

With curtains of the brightest hue ; 

Hang gold beneath the blue and red, 

And brown above the blue. 

Is there no blazonry save in the west ? 

The hills that bound the northwest bay 

No kisses wave, no scarfs display. 

A purple twilight caps each crest. 

Tongue Mountain gathers no light on his cheek. 

Above his head no halos. 

But over the narrow waist of the lake 

Nods drearily to his fellows. 

Draw the night curtains over your head. 

Old sluggard ; to the setting sun 

Your parting is already said, 

Though scarcely yet begun. 

Is the south sky also dreary ? 



ANDIATOROCTE 35 

Not dreary ; but its light is dying, 

And the clouds, in gray blankets lying, 

Seem like huntsmen chill and weary. 

But oh ! see ! see ! the wonderful West 

All bright and glorious doth remain ! 

The sunset streams against his breast, 

To fall in golden dust again, 

A shower of prismatic rain 

Upon the mountain crest. 

Stay now ! Change nothing ! All is well. 

Let our eyes fill ! Where every hue 

Is lovelier than tongue can tell, 

The heart desires nothing new. 

Vain pleading ; fickle as the glowworm's glow. 

These dewy tapestries now fade, now fill ; 

The tides of color ebb and flow. 

The last always the loveliest ; until. 

As startled by some fear or freak, 

Shrinks the blood back from the celestial cheek. 

And all that lately seemed so real, 

And was so lovely in the scenery. 

Dissolves like dreams which the machinery 

Of fancy knits in sleep from the ideal. 

Comes back again the cold uncolored light ; 

The clouds resume their wraps of dusty brown ; 

Closed are the shutters of the night ; 

The show is done : the sun is down. 

What is there left behind ? 

What is there still to look upon ? 

Only a ridge of hill sharp-lined 

Against a sky of stone. 

No more ? Ay, in the blue vault overhead, 

Something unseen before is spread. 

Wide unrolling, groping, drooping nigher. 

An ominous canopy of cloud has grown, 



36 ANDIATOROCTE. 

Like the smoke of a great council fire 
When all the chiefs are gone. 

All nature seems to hold its breath, so deep 

The silence. All the leaves, still ears, 

Seem listening to hear what little stirs. 

Softly across the lake light undulations creep, 

And murmuring low prayers lay meekly down 

Under the rocky walls that breast the shore. 

Is there some solemn service going on ? 

This lake — is it some sacred temple floor. 

With hills for galleries ? Ah ! holy silence speak ; 

If God be nearer now, thy message break. 

And give to souls that love the signal to adore. 

Only the crickets have a heart to sing, 

But not for joy. The dismal tree-toad croaks 

A harsh monotony from yon clump of oaks. 

And tattered birch. The prowling night-hawk's 

wing 
A passing shadow throws against the sky, 
Upon his way to some dark burglary. 
So evil stirs when honest life is still, 
Loving, not silence, but the dark. Stay ! hush ! 
What threnody comes wailing from yon bush ? 
It is the cry of the whippoorwill. 
Waste no compassion on a causeless folly 
That takes delight in nursing melancholy. 
Out of the moonlight weaves a wanton misery. 
Are there no human fools as fond as he ? 
Let us shake off the influence of the night 
With song, or joyous converse. No twilight 
Gathers in healthy spirits. The pale moon 
Reflects her softened sunbeams, not for grief alone. 
But more for grateful love, and thoughtful prayer. 
True souls seek shade only when God is there. 



ANDIA TOROCTE. 37 

Ah ! there are skies with suns that never set, 
Clouds that wear constant gold beneath the violet ; 
Green trees that spread no gloom along the grove. 
Shines always light in hearts that truly love. 
'T is Lady-Day ; winged angels are abroad. 
Come ! Give the present hour to Mary, and to 
God. 

How oft the heart's best washes are forestalled ! 

What sympathies are noduled everywhere ! 

What filaments electric wire the air ! 

What sudden carriers come to souls uncalled ! 

Does nature work thus by some means unknown ; 

Or are these agents of another state, 

Still natural, but higher than our own, 

That sometimes with our world communicate ? 

Or is it the same hand divine that weaves 

Our higher destinies, yet never leaves 

To natural law alone the little threads, 

Or grudges helpful grace to little needs ? 

Let the dull realist interpret by his rule. 

Clothe the dead dust with empire, heaven with 

crape. 
Love, thought, and conscience out of atoms shape ; 
We poets, prophets of a nobler school, 
Will cleave to a philosophy with wings, 
Emancipate imperial thought from things. 
See more in life than sense, in death than rust ; 
Seek causes in the sky, not in the dust. 
Why, when a pulse or two ago, as love computes, 
I called to the deep silence for some notes 
Of pious melody to fill the void 
Within my thought, by silence made, 
And which a tuneful silence only could supply, — 
How, on the very instant, came reply ? 
Promptly it came, and softly through the air ; 



38 ANDIATOROCTE. 

Prompt as assurance from suspected love, 
Soft as betimes come stepping from above 
By velvet stairs, angels with boon to prayer. 
Coincidences, say you. Ay ; but the tether, 
The cord, the wave electric, by whose means 
Is overlapped the space that intervenes. 
And souls apart think, breathe together ; 
Stretch bodiless hands, touch, give the grip, 
Where previous thought knew naught of fellowship ; 
Tell me the secret, brother, if you know it : 
The magnet show, if you can show it. 
Then may the victor's greenest laurel crown you, 
And a poet's benison be on you. 

Through distant windows of the convent came the 

sound. 
By custom drawn, or in a pious mood, 
Some tuneful choristers of the brotherhood 
Had gathered in the library around 
A stand, with Hymnals, and a Gradual, 
Rehearsing for the morrow's festival. 
I give the substance of what was sung. 
Rendered, as best I can, in English tongue ; 
But that rare hymn with its gentle power. 
And the charm that clings to Gregorian tone. 
And the eloquent breath of a holy hour 
I cannot give. The spell is gone. 

AVE MARIS STELLA. 

Hail, thou star of ocean ! 

Guide, and guard, and haven ; 
Mother, and yet Virgin ; 

Happy gate of heaven. 

Take the *' ave " Gabriel 
Brings thee, holy Maiden ; 



ANDIA TOROCTE. 

And, a new Eve, lead us 
Safe to a new Eden. 

Loose the sinner's fetters ; 

Give the blind soul vision ; 
Evil chase. For every 

Needful grace petition. 

'T was for us the Saviour 
Sanctified and chose thee ; 

Show thyself a Mother. 
Will thy Son refuse thee ? 

Maid, above all maidens 
Mild and pure as crystal ; 

Gentle Mary, make us 
Also pure and gentle. 

Make our pathway surer ; 

Calm life's rushing fever ; 
Keep us until Jesus 

Seal our souls forever. 



CONCLUSION. 

Would you see Lake George aright ? 

Come meekly, then, with staff in hand, 

True pilgrim to a holy land, 

A summer's anchorite. 

Abandon, with the crowded town, 

Parlor, shop, office, all show of dress. 

All fever of work or of idleness. 

Come not with simpering fops to drown, 

In ball-room chatter, 

The eloquence of the holy lake. 

And brother, oh ! for pity's sake. 

Save these sweet woodlands from the clatter 



39 



40 ANDIATOROCTE. 

Of carriage wheels, and horses' feet, 

And the dusty breath of the street. 

If forsooth you come to buy. 

To build a lodge or cottage nigh. 

Ah ! bring no vandal hand 

To mar the beauty of lake or land. 

Save nature to the eye. 

Build out no pier to overreach 

The graceful windings of the beach. 

Be not too quick to clip and clear. 

A hasty hand will soon undo 

What slowly to perfection grew 

Through many a gathering year. 

On lake or land all life is precious. 

Show grace ; and should some sudden quarrel 

With nature place your life in peril, 

May lake and land be gracious ! 

Come, brother, come ; but with you bring 

No trick of city gardening. 

Wear not your time and patience out 

With needless spade and clumsy pot, 

And weary watering. 

Here out from nature's bosom bud 

Sweet flowers, nurslings of sun and cloud, 

Her own free offering. 

Pencilled are they by a deft hand 

That never fails ; 

By sovereign genius made to stand 

Where beauty most avails. 

The sturdy rocks are trellises 

On which the wild vine trails ; 

The meadows lift gay chalices 

To pledge the clouds that pass ; 

The violet opens her blue eye 



ANDIA TOROCTE. 41 

Beneath the spears of grass, 
Green pennants wave on high, — 
Love reigns, guarded by chivalry. 
The clover, daisy, buttercup. 
Thick-scattered o'er the fields, look up 
With reverence, to claim smile and nod 
And blessing from the golden-rod. 
Benignant in his beauty towers 
The crosiered prelate of the flowers. 

Such treasures do our highlands yield : 

Thickly they crowd and grow 

Where the sun is free to glow, 

And press hot lips to the field ; 

But far more tenderly I love 

The sweet recluses of the grove. 

The forest flowers are not so gay 

As those of the open air ; 

Their simple beauty shuns display ; 

More pure and delicate are they, 

And methinks more truly fair. 

All flowers, like the heliotrope, 

Follow the circling sun ; 

But the forest flower his gaze doth shun. 

Through leafy vistas looking up 

With deeper, loftier desire, 

To it, secluded from low light, 

Rapt seer of a loftier sight. 

The signal stars come nigher. 

Come, brother, lake and stars invite you ; 
Cast the old life aside ; 
Open the heart doors wide ; 
Andiatorocte will requite you. 
Come, see these chestnut hills aglow 



42 ANDIA TOROCTE. 

Beneath their drifts of summer snow ; 

Come, bring free kings to this mountain air ; 

Come, drink from fountains pure and clear ; 

Bathe with the fishes, sing with the birds ; 

Warm your veins in sunny meadows ; 

Ponder whiles in silent shadows ; 

Cull from the archives of these highlands, 

These dreamy banks, bays, inlets, islands. 

The old traditions of the lake, 

Tales of hunter, scout, and brave. 

Of holy feet that knew no leisure, 

Swimming eyes that found no pleasure, 

Loved no science, but to save. 

Come with pulse prepared to rhyme 

With artless life, yet tuned to chime 

With life's great Oversoul. 

Are not the rings of space and time 

Linked in a perfect whole ? 

Leave things for truth ; begin to think ; 

Change shallow facts for wiser lore ; 

Come study beauty for beauty's sake. 

I promise you that you shall drink, 

O pilgrim to the holy lake. 

As never before. 

Draughts of pure and joyous truth ; 

A sweetness shall lie on your tongue. 

And your eyes shall grow young, 

O Ponce De Leon, with perpetual youth. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



43 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



THE ENGLISH SPARROW. 

As I lay sick on my bed, 
So sick that, to my weary brain, 
The downy pillow seemed lead 
Under my head ; 
As wearily thus reclining, 
I gazed through the window-pane, 
Where nothing met my eye 
Save leafless branches intertwining 
Betwixt me and the sky ; 
A little cock-sparrow flew into the tree, 
And looked through the window at me. 
" Begone ! " said I, " you hateful thing ! 
You 're as ugly as sin, and you cannot sing. 
Besides, you 're a rascally thief ; 
The mischief you 've done to the grain. 
And the fruit, and will do again. 
Is past belief. 

Wherever your scolding voice is heard 
You are known for a quarrelsome bird. 
You drive the dear little thrushes away, 
The robin and the wren. 
Go back to your English home again. 
You brawling thief, and stay ! 
45 



46 THE ENGLISH SPARROW. 

You have my mind in these few words : 
American skies for Ajnerican birds. 
Shoo ! sparrow, fly away ! " 

Was it a little cock-lawyer I spied, 

With an expanse of legal breast. 

His thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, 

And his hair brushed back with professional pride ? 

No ; 't was the little cock-sparrow replied ; 

Sprightly he hopped to my window-sill ; 

Lightly he lifted his coat-tail behind, 

While he stooped to sharpen his bill. 

And, perhaps, to recall to mind 

A few points of his case. 

Then, with a courtly grace, 

And just the proper degree of excitement, 

He put in his plea 

In answer to me. 

And my indictment. 

" Before this great high court of Heaven, 

Where all of us, both birds and men, 

Stand self-accused of sin. 

And hope to be forgiven, 

Permit me here to recommend 

To my learned friend 

A little moderation 

In his use of actionable words. 

It is known to some of us birds 

Of a more liberal education, 

That the Great Father of us all 

Will not allow a sparrow to fall 

To the ground, on a simple accusation. 

Through the mere force of vociferation, 

Without a true bill found. 

Now, let me ask a word or two, sir. 



i 



THE ENGLISH SPARROW. 47 

Of you, sir, 

Who, to my deep grief, 

(Though without any brief,) 

Appear as my accuser ; 

Where are your proofs that I am a thief. 

And that I steal the grain ? " 

I said : '' The evidence is plain ; 

It is a fact of common report. 

The public opinion against you is clear, 

And others of your sort." 

" Is public opinion," he said, " to pass here 

For law or evidence. 

In my case, or that of any other ? 

Is it even common-sense ? 

Allow me to refer my brother 

To a case in point, where the court 

(See Vol. 3, of Longfellow's Report) 

Confirmed the old established rule, 

That public opinion 's the law of a fool ; 

That, on the strength of current stories, 

For a farmer to scatter powder and shot. 

Even though it should be on his own lot, 

Is contra bonos mores j 

Granting injunction, and so forth, 

To plaintiffs, the birds of Killingworth." 

Here, as lawyers will pause, to look at their briefs, 

Or wipe their heads with their handkerchiefs, 

Or readjust their collars. 

So the sparrow came to a stop. 

Indulged in a flutter and a hop, 

And then proceeded as follows : 

" Now, I am free to admit 

(For I am candid enough 



48 THE ENGLISH SPARROW, 

Not to wish to pass myself off 

For a saint, or an anchoret,) 

That I have been quick, in my day 

And somewhat disputatious, 

My gracious ! 

Is that a case for Botany Bay ? 

That I am fond of wheat, I own, 

When I see it on the ground ; 

Very easily found 

When carelessly sown ; 

And when it swings in the yellow ear, 

In the golden time of the year, 

I may stop to pick a grain or two. 

All birds do that ; would n't you ? 

But bless your soul ! you may safely say, 

If opportunity makes the thief, 

According to the common belief, 

'T is little enough we get that way. 

Now, ask yourself — all the year round. 

When, in the sheaf, or on the ground, 

No grain turns up 

To put into crop, 

But all is stored in the barn or bin, 

Where sparrows cannot get in, — 

Pray, what are we doing then ? 

Where then do we get our meat and drink ? 

O man ! man ! man ! 't is a show 

How little you lords of creation know, 

And how little you think ! 

Why, every intelligent Rtisticus^ 

With an ounce of brain, 

Knows that Xh.^ passer domesticuSy 

Though he loves the grain. 

Is insectivorous, 

And, although in England some narrow heads 

May offer rewards for sparrow-heads, 



THE ENGLISH SPARROW. 49 

Yet, we are in better report 

With farmers of a wiser sort. 

It is an old tradition there 

That, of our species, a single pair, 

When breeding, destroy in one short week. 

Four thousand caterpillars. 

This is the food we seek 

To feed our young ; saving thus, to the millers 

And farmers, so much in grain 

When the harvest comes again. 

Now I ask my learned brother's decision, 

In re civiuin versus passer cs^ 

Whether services like these 

Do not deserve some slight commission ; 

And whether, or not. 

We ought to be paid in powder and shot ? " 

Here Johnny stopped to sharpen his bill 

On the windowstone. 

As sparrows will. 

When reflecting what is next to be done ; 

Twisting his busy little head. 

With many a sudden crook, 

And with many a sharp, inquisitive look 

To where I lay on my bed. 

Then changing attitude, 

After a sudden hop and a flutter. 

Poised on one leg he stood. 

As if waiting for our rebutter. 

Said I : " The points you make 

Are very skilfully put. 

And very artfully worded, but 

You labor under a slight mistake ; 

Your learning might have more weight 

Were I a lawyer or magistrate. 



50 THE ENGLISH SPARROW. 

But please withdraw ; 
I am nothing of the sort ; 
I plead at a higher court, 
And teach a higher law." 

" Pardon me, sir," he said, 

With a bob of his little head ; 

" Pardon my want of sense ; 

How could I mistake your Reverence ? 

But no words can express 

My present happiness. 

I 'm always delighted to meet, when I can, 

With a clergyman. 

Permit me-to recall to mind 

Those gracious words already quoted. 

Wherein so clearly is denoted 

The care of Heaven for our kind. 

The psalmist David knew us well, 

And on our habits loved to dwell. 

Oft in affliction he sat aloof 

With us on the lonely roof. 

/ watch, said he, like a sparrow alone. 

On the house-top. 

There often sadly he came up 

To pray ; but never said Begone ! 

Nor dreamed that a sparrow could intrude 

Upon the holiest solitude. 

In that holy prophet's time, I find 

That even the sacred temple court 

Was made the resort 

Of worshippers of our kind. 

We hung our homes to pillar and beam ; 

There with the sons of Korah we sang. 

While the panelled cedar above us rang 

With the praises of Elohim. 

And this is the song that was sung : 



THE ENGLISH SPARROW. 5 I 

Lo^ the sparrow hath found a rest, 
Where she may lay her yoimg j 
And the turtle hath built herself a nest 
Where her little ones may lie, 
Even thy altars, O Adonai ! 

" But the ancients have had their day ; 

Let us see what modern society 

Has to say, 

Whether sparrows now walk the narrow way, 

And practise piety. 

There 's a singing sparrow in Congo, 

Of whom the missionaries tell 

(See Buffon, ' L'Histoire Naturelle '), 

And thus does the wild bird's song go : 

' Va dritto ! ' — go right — such is his call. 

Proclaiming the moral law to all. 

In the heart of man this law 

Is a song without words, 

A trembling of voiceless chords. 

An undefined, mysterious awe, 

A language of the silent night 

Sitting in judgment on the light. 

But this little sparrow puts words to the song, 

And sings them all day long. 

' Va dritto ! ' — go right ! 

'T is the conscience of the wilderness. 

To every thing that goeth there, 

To every thing that groweth there, 

He sings ; and only men transgress. 

" On the same African shore 

A sweeter note is heard, 

And a dearer word 

Rings in the woods forevermore. 

And still it is the sparrow's throat 



52 THE ENGLISH SPARROW. 

That utters the note, 

And names the name that men adore. 

As soon as the morning wakes, 

He sets up his song and sings. 

Then through the forest and over the brakes 

A heavenly music rings ; 

But the magic of the sound 

Which sanctifies that heathen ground 

Is in the naming of a name 

Which only one can claim — 

' Jesu ! ' This is his morning hymn ; 

And the Christian missionary there 

Is roused from sleep with a call to prayer. 

And when the day grows dim. 

The sparrow sings this sweet curfew ; 

* Jesu ! Jesu ! ' 

Then is it not true, — 

Ere ever the sacred word was broken, 

Ere ever a Christian tongue had spoken 

On African ground, God was made known 

To the heathen nations there, 

And the poor negro learned a prayer 

From a missionary of our own ? 

With like intent, 

By the same Great Father sent. 

Hither this morning was I led 

To sing at your sick-bed. 

Had your heart listened, it might have heard 

As dear a word, 

As sweet a tune. 

In the heart is grown 

All the music of earth and sky. 

I hope you will be well soon. 

Good-bye ! " 



ETERNITY, 53 



ETERNITY. 

What art thou, O Eternity ? 

Show thy true face to me. 

For now thou hidest from my thought, 

By thy grandeur overwrought, 

And all distraught. 

Let my soul see thee as thou art. 

No longer crouch a shapeless error, 

A nameless terror, 

A dusky shadow on my heart. 

Art thou composed of time and motion ? 

Is thy vast magnitude 

Made up of increase, number, multitude ; 

Like an ideal ocean. 

Whose waves successive speed forevermore. 

Each after each, 

Yet never reach, 

Nor ever quit a shore ? 

Is endless time eternity ? 

Spake a low voice to me 

Nearer than my thought : 

" Motion and time to me are naught. 

These are measures of the creature. 

The mind of man 

Can never span 

An attribute, or act, or feature 

Of a life like mine. 

For I am God ; and my eternity 

Is but an attribute of my divinity, 

And like myself divine. 

I move at my own good pleasure. 

My flight as long as fleet ; 

And when my wings I beat. 



54 PICTURES ON THE MANTEL. 

What thought of man can measure 
The length of their vibration, 
Or register in counterpart 
The throbbing of my mighty heart, 
And number its duration ? 

vain endeavor 

To map and plan, by rule and rod. 
The years of God ! 

1 am, I am, I am forever. 

My life no past, no future claims ; 
Eternity is one of my names.' 

In God we live ; yet not like His our living. 

Our being flows in His which has no tide. 

On a calm breast we ride 

Which, life and movement to us giving, 

Taketh itself no motion. 

Thus on the surface of the ocean 

The light waves flow 

As the breezes blow ; 

They stretch themselves from crest to crest, 

But measure only their own unrest. 

Beneath their superficial strife 

The untroubled deep 

Its calm doth keep, 

Held by a mightier life. 



PICTURES ON THE MANTEL. 

Old and feeble, and nearly blind, 

Shrunk and shattered in body and mind, 

A leafless wintry tree ; 

Before me a vacant desert spread. 

Behind me a garden whose flowers are dead, 

But death comes slow to me. 



PICTURES ON THE MANTEL. 55 

In that frame above the mantel there, 

From under gray locks of flowing hair, 

Two searching eyes outpeer. 

Is it a smile, or is it a frown ? 

Ah ! Father, would it were either one, 

If only thou wert here. 

On the left I see another face, 
In antique cap of pleated lace. 
How sadly sweet, and blest ! 
Lone lie the caverns of the heart. 
Slow drag the listless years apart. 
Since she laid down to rest. 

Sure, she has something to say to me, 
Some thought she would convey to me, 
Some warning, or word of faith. 
Dear mother, speak, if you may, to me ! 
Mute effort of love ! this way to me 
Comes not one wave of breath. 

Between the two hangs the old homestead, 
With pines and elm-trees overspread. 
How still and solemn their shade ! 
Is it the stillness of vacant death. 
Or throbbing life that holds its breath 
In memory of the dead ? 

As I gaze, the dear old home grows bright ; 

The windows gleam with life and light ; 

Feet move across the floor ; 

Sweet faces peer through the window-pane ; 

The buried years come back again, 

And I am young once more. 

What breath stirred up that dying brand, 
And cast a light on every hand, 
To cheer my lonely room ? 



56 TE DEUM LAUD AM US. 

Ah ! mc, — 't is gone Avith that one gleam, 
And with it fades my joyous dream, 
To leave my soul in gloom. 

Fond dreams of faded joy, adieu ! 
I '11 sit the weary night-watch through. 
Though it be dark and lone. 
Father in heaven ! I turn to thee. 
Light of the lonely ! cheer thou me. 
Until this night be gone ! 



TE DEUM LAUDAMUS. 

Holy God, we praise Thy name ! 
Lord of all, we bow before Thee ! 
All on earth Thy sceptre claim, 
All in heaven above adore Thee ; 
Infinite Thy vast domain. 
Everlasting is Thy reign. 

Hark ! the loud celestial hymn 

Angel choirs above are raising ! 

Cherubim and Seraphim, 

In unceasing chorus praising. 

Fill the Heavens with sweet accord ; 

Holy ! Holy ! Holy Lord ! 

Lo ! the Apostolic train 
Join, Thy sacred name to hallow ! 
Prophets swell the loud refrain. 
And the white-robed Martyrs follow ; 
And from morn to set of sun 
Through the Church the song goes on. 

Holy Father, Holy Son, 

Holy Spirit, Three we name Thee, 

Though in essence only one 



CHILDREN AT THE CRIB. 57 

Undivided God we claim Thee ; 
And adoring bend the knee, 
While we own the mystery. 

Thou art King of Glory, Christ ! 
Son of God, yet born of Mary ; 
For us sinners sacrificed, 
And to death a tributary ; 
First to break the bars of death. 
Thou hast opened Heaven to faith. 

From Thy high celestial home. 
Judge of all, again returning. 
We believe that thou shalt come 
On the dreadful Doomsday morning 
When Thy voice shall shake the earth, 
And the startled dead come forth. 

Spare Thy people, Lord, we pray. 
By a thousand snares surrounded ; 
Keep us without sin to-day ; 
Never let us be confounded ! 
Lo ! I put my trust in Thee ; 
Never, Lord, abandon me. 



CHILDREN AT THE CRIB. 

A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

What lovely Infant can this be, 
That in the little crib I see ? 
So sweetly on the straw it lies, 
It must have come from Paradise. 

Who is that Lady kneeling by, 
And gazing on so tenderly ? 
Oh, that is Mary ever blest ; 
How full of joy her holy breast ! 



58 THEREIN 

What Man is that who seems to smile, 
And look so blissful all the while ? 
'T is holy Joseph, good and true. 
The Infant makes him happy too. 

What makes the crib so bright and clear? 
What voices sing so sweetly here ? 
Ah ! see behind the window-pane 
The little angels looking in ! 

Who are those people kneeling down, 
With crooked sticks, and hands so brown ? 
The shepherds. On the mountain top 
The little angels woke them up. 

The ox and ass, how still and mild 
They stand beside the Holy Child ! 
His little body underneath 
They warm so kindly with their breath. 

Hail, holy cave ! though dark thou be, 
The world is lighted up from thee ! 
Hail, Holy Babe ! creation stands, 
And moves upon Thy little hands. 



THEREIN. 



I know a valley fair and green. 

Wherein, wherein 
A clear and winding brook is seen ; 

Therein 
The village street stands in its pride, 
With a row of elms on either side, 

Therein. 
They shade the village green. 



THEREIN. 59 

In the village street there is an inn, 

Wherein, wherein 
The landlord sits in bottle-green. 

Therein. 
His face is like a glowing coal, 
And his paunch is like a swelling bowl. 

Therein 
Good ale is stored, I ween. 

The inn has a cosy fireside. 

Wherein, wherein 
The huge andirons stand astride, 

Therein. 
When the air is raw of a winter's night, 
The fire on the hearth shines bright 

Therein. 
'T is sweet to be therein. 

The landlord sits in his old arm-chair 

Therein, therein ; 
And the blaze shines through his yellow hair 

Therein. 
There cometh Lawyer Bickerstith, 
And the village doctor, and the smith. 

Therein 
Full many a tale they spin. 

They talk of fiery Sheridan's raid, 

Therein, therein ; 
And hapless Baker's ambuscade, 

Therein ; 
The grip by which Grant throttled Lee, 
And Sherman's famous march to the sea. 

Therein 
Great fights are fought again. 



60 THEREIN. 

The landlord has a daughter fair 

Therein, therein. 
In ringlets falls her glossy hair 

Therein. 
When they speak in her ear she tosses her head ; 
When they look in her eye she hangs the lid 

Therein. 
She does not care a pin. 

I know the maiden's heart full well. 

Therein, therein 
Pure thoughts and holy wishes dwell, 

Therein. 
I see her at church on bended knee ; 
And well 1 know she prays for me 

Therein. 
Sure, that can be no sin. 

Our parish church has a holy priest 

Therein, therein. 
When he sings the mass, he faces the east 

Therein. 
On Sunday next he will face the west, 
When Annie and I go up abreast, 

Therein, 
And carry our wedding-ring. 

And when v/e die, as die we must ; 

Therein, therein 
The priest will pray o'er the breathless dust, 

Therein ; 
And our graves will be planted side by side. 
But the hearts that loved shall not abide 

Therein, 
But love in heaven again. 



THE SARATOGA PINES. 6 1 



THE SARATOGA PINES. 

Lo me in the old grove again ! 

In sweet society, but not of men. 

How familiar, yet how odd, to me 

These pines that round me gather ! 

They seem to know and nod to me, 

As they knew and nodded to my Father 

Long ago. 

He loved them ; and I know 

That then they whispered in his ear 

With the same familiar confidence 

They show me since. 

The young and giddy cannot hear 

What they say ; for it is only 

To the old, and lonely, 

The groves confide their history. 

To us they unlock the mystery 

Of life, and death, and love, and pride. 

That in their dusky archives hide. 

I know these relics of the forest well ; 

I know their speech. 

And I can tell 

What each says to each 

When stirred, and what they think when still. 

I have seen them in commotion, 

Roused by some tale of woe 

Or wrong, when they swayed to and fro, 

As when some common strong emotion 

Urges a human crowd from healthful quiet 

To passion and mad riot. 

Indignant then they lift their boughs ; 

Sullenly they knit their brows ; 



62 THE SARATOGA PINES. 

Wild threats they utter beneath ; 

Curses they mutter between their teeth ; 

Their needles hiss with scorn and hate ; 

Their cones vibrate, 

And seem to spit and spin 

With the fury they are in. 

'T is the orator w^nds that blow, 

The demagogue winds, that stir them so. 

So terribly are they sometimes swayed 

That I have been afraid 

To sit below, 

Lest their wild mood might end. 

Like that of the King of Macedon 

(Mad tyrant on a drunken throne). 

In the death of a friend. 

I have seen them shiver w4th coward fear 
As children do, of a winter's night, 
When eagerly bending down to hear 
A tale of murder, or ghost in white. 
They crowd their tufted heads together. 
Then start away in sudden fright, 
And hither sway, and thither. 
They would fly, if they might. 
From some grim presence in the wood 
That cramps the air with a chill ; — 
A ghost perhaps from McGregor's hill. 
That bodes no weal to the neighborhood 
But always and only ill. 

I have seen them as still as death ; 

A stillness calm and deep, 

Far stiller than any natural sleep ; 

A perfect suppression of breath ; 

Life anchored in a trance ; 

Thought gathered into a single glance, 



THE SARATOGA FINES. 63 

And fixed, by a crystallization 
AVhich is given to some, at precious times, 
When the love-lightened spirit climbs 
To meet with God in contemplation. 
Such is the prayer of the trees. 
Oh ! solemn the silence of pines in prayer ! 
I have seen them so still I would not dare 
To whisper, except upon my knees ; 
For I felt that God was in the grove. 
And that man, beast, bird, tree, flower, 
Are sheltered by one mighty power. 
And one familiar love. 

To-day a light air, born of the calm. 

Moves eastward, and the boughs are stirred, 

And throb, like the strings of a harpsichord 

When the heart is feeling for a psalm 

Which slower thought has not matured. 

The inspiration gathers slow ; 

The notes at first are shy and low ; 

The needles, softly fluttered, 

Now fall, now rise 

With a bashful enterprise 

That dies away as soon as uttered. 

Yet hark ! Now they yield to the influence 

Of the swelling breeze ; 

And, gathering confidence 

From the fellowship of trees. 

The notes rise high and strong ; 

All fear is lost in the soul of song ; 

Flows out the genius of the pine 

In all the forms that genius gives, 

And every needle and cone receives 

The impetus divine. 

A lofty anthem fills the grove ; 

The giant trunks are all inspired ; 



64 THE SARATOGA FINES. 

Each to its inmost ring is fired 
With love. 

God ! the grand old pine, 
Though passionate, is no infidel. 
He knows Thee well ; 

And his faithful heart is Thine. 

1 love these tall columnal pines. 

I grieve to see how fast they 're going, 

And in their place prim maples growing, 

Choked into sentiment by vines ; 

Or elms thick set in formal lines. 

These may suit whims of modern wealth 

But their life is lower than the pine's. 

And they lack its balmy health. 

Alas ! I name one single change, 

Where many things are growing strange. 

Broadway is crowded now with faces 

Of a type we never knew 

In the olden time. Only a few 

Remain, like the pines, in their old places. 

Poor exiles of the heart, they wait 

At home, to see home emigrate. 

They feel their way through the familiar street ; 

Anxious they search the passers-by. 

Yet with a far-off light in the eye. 

What they miss they '11 never meet. 

Their longing hearts cannot receive 

A sympathy they cannot give. 

Like the pines they are jostled out 

By a younger growth that needs them not. 

So all life ends. 

So pass old trees ; so pass old friends. 

Yea, the great world will have had its day. 

Like these, then pass away. 

Oh ! say, where all glides to one night, 



WRETCHED POVERTY. 65 

What value has fame in the flight ? 
Brief life ! Brief record after death ! 
Yet happy I, could this be mine : — 
A life as lofty as the pine, 
And balmy as its breath. 



WRETCHED POVERTY. 



Three lodgers, gaunt and grim. 

Hunger, and shame, and gloom. 

Inhabit the poor man's home. 

These many years they lodge with him, 

They share his lot, 

They occupy all that he has got. 

They board at his table, they lie on his couch, 

Before the fire with him they crouch 

To stir the dying embers ; 

And often they rake into a blaze 

Some sleeping pain, 

And he remembers 

The early and innocent days 

That cannot come again. 

Helpless to work, hopeless to think, 

He has no thought, 

He cares for naught 

In the whole wide world but drink. 

Where is his wife ? She lies prostrate 

Where, with an oath and blow, he laid her. 

His son ? Ask at the prison gate. 

His daughter ? Ask the man that betrayed her. 

Where is his faith ? It has flown. 

To him God and faith are unknown. 



.66 WRETCHED POVERTY. 

Of friends in heaven, on earth, not one 
Is left. He is all alone. 
Here all is bare and desolate, 
Here misery is complete. 

Oh ! there are Christian men who know 

Of all this hunger, and sin, and woe. 

And find nothing to do. 

They say that nothing can be done, 

In such a case, by any one. 

God's mercy ! is this true ? 

Are they so conscience free ? are you ? 



Three gloomy, ghostly shadows, that pass 

By the poor man's hut. 

Look in through the window glass 

As he looks out. 

The first is " Life without Faith "; 

The second is " Dying Breath "; 

And the third is " The Second Death." 

Sternly they look into his eyes 

As they go by ; 

But his heart of stone 

Sends to heaven no groan, 

And, when they are gone, no sigh. 

Alas ! alas ! 

What strange things pass 

Beneath the wondering sky ! 

But, more than doom of death, I dread 

The look of a human eye 

Whence the hope of heaven has fled. 

My God ! is there no help for this, 

No remedy anywhere 

In human effort or in grace ? 



LOVE WITH A GUN. 67 

Say, must this hopelessness 

Needs end in wild despair ? 

Can I do nothing there ? 

Surely, mere want can be relieved, 

A gloomy spirit may be brightened, 

Errors may be retrieved, 

A darkened mind can be enlightened. 

Cures have been found for the heart's blindness. 

There is a mighty force in love 

To melt and move. 

Where love is only human kindness ; 

Then oh ! what power to beguile 

The heart, and bid it live, 

Is lodged in the light of that infinite smile 

Which is named grace, 

Which beams on the Saviour's face. 

And which only He can give ! 



LOVE WITH A GUN. 

" Fetch me my gun, little woman ; quick ! 
I go to the woods." " Let it stand. 
Dear Uncle ; for, well I know, in your hand, 
It is more innocent than a stick ; 
Ha ! ha ! 
More innocent than a stick." 

'' Give me the gun, little Nell, all the same. 
I go to the woods, not to kill ; 
I go to conquer a tyrant will. 
And with love to capture my game. 
Little Miss, 
With love to capture my game." 



68 LOVE WITE A GUN. 

" Oh ! teach me, dear Uncle, this exercise ; 
I too would be a huntress whiles. 
How grand ! to shoot down eagles with smiles 
And kill great lions with my eyes ! 
Ha ! ha ! 
Kill lions with my eyes ! " 

" Such gunnery, girl, is unchristian sport, 
And argues cruelty of will ; 
Yea, though heedless beauty doth often kill, 
It also may get badly hurt, 
Little Maid, 
It also may get hurt. 

" Then drive that evil thought away. 
Fear to do hurt ; fear to take harm. 
Our lives lean on a gentle arm 
That loves to save, though strong to slay. 
O, giant arm, 
How strong to save or slay ! 



" Earth, — skies, — are stored with fiery death ; 
Vast magazines of mighty Heaven. 
Yet earth is steady, skies move even ; 
Safely we walk above, beneath. 
Strong love 
Guards all, above, beneath. 

" 'T is a lesson I take to the woods with me 
Some fallen trunk, — a giant asleep — 
Holds my sleeping gun, while my watch I keep 
For the game that love brings to me ; 
Do you see ? 
The game love brings to me. 



THE DA YS OF GENESIS. 69 

" All is silent at first. But very soon 

My friends of the forest come stealing in ; 
The robin, the crow, the woodcock, the wren, 
The rabbit, the curious squirrel, the coon ; 
Stealing in 
To look at me and my gun. 

" I am King of the woods. My throne is a log. 
The sparrows peer into the bore of my gun. 
The squirrels throw shells, in familiar fun, 
At me their Monarch, and at my dog. 
Ha ! ha ! 
So I rule with my gun and my dog. 

" And they sing, they sing ; each sings in his turn 
That power is grand, when Love is Lord ; 
And they hail the fire divinely stored, 
With will to bless, and force to burn ; 
Gentle fire. 
Blessing all, with power to burn." 



THE DAYS OF GENESIS. 

PROEM. 

Deem not these days primordial spanned by time. 

Range not the bells of Genesis to chime 

With science. What are agec, years, or days 

To eyes prophetical, but sacred ways 

To teach high law and holy truth to man ? 

All life leads back to Him who drew life's plan 

Untableted. Bound by one high behest, 

The prophet ranged his tablets as he list. 



yo THE DA YS OF GENESIS. 

Creation was his theme ; and from inspired tongue 
Burst this grand burden in a solemn song, 

With intervals of choral praise ; 

And the intervals are days. 

DAY I. 

In the beginning God made heaven and earth. 

Void was creation at its earliest birth, 

Lonely and dark, an ocean without shore. 

Perpetual midnight brooded evermore 

Upon a waste of waters. The primeval sleep 

Of death hung on the eyelids of the deep. 

No life as yet. Blind forces drove or drew 

By laws which even dull inertia knew. 

Grand in his purposes, but all unused to urge, 

A mighty Smith slow plied the kindling forge. 

" Be light ! " Quick through the world the fiat rang, 

And wakened Nature into lustre sprang. 

A soft enchantment flooded pregnant space. 

Giving blind chaos body, itself bodiless. 

The eddying atoms rolled in wreaths of light, 

Taking all vision needs save only sight. 

Creation had no eye, not yet were wrought 

Those crystal caves where sense distils to thought ; 

But all unseen a lone though luminous world 

Of mustering meteors into order whirled. 

Evening and morn, day one. 

But the mighty Smith wrought on. 

DAY II. 

Hung the deep heavens in shrouds of vapor dressed. 
The earth was blanketed in watery mist. 
Far overhead, slow gathering in their robes. 
The shapeless meteors crystalled into globes. 
God spake : Divide, O waste of waters, here ; 
Make space for a clear sky and a free atmosphere. 



THE DAYS OF GENESIS. 71 

Westward, ye heavens, in endless circle sweep, 

And, like a roof, arch in this lower deep ; 

And thou, O sea, lapped in thy caves remain 

Without a shore until I speak again. 

Evening and morn, 'T is done. 
Yet the mighty Smith wrought on. 

DAY III. 

What vision saw that wondrous eve and morn 
When from the ocean-bed the lands were born ? 
What mighty hand lifted the deep sea caves, 
And made the islands bud above the waves ? 
These grew to continents. Along the ocean floor 
Deep currents spread the wastings of the shore 
In ridges vast. Slow throbbings of the earth 
Upheaving these, to mountain chains gave birth. 
Green spread the grass and trees o'er the young 

land. 
Oh ! gentle were the fingers of that mighty hand. 
A third day's labor done, 
But the mighty Smith wrought on. 

DAY IV. 

Now lift our thoughts to the round heaven above, 
Where sun, moon, stars by law in order move. 
They mark our time. The sun by day gives light, 
A softer radiance rules the veiled night. 
God made all these. O Israel, lend no ear 
To heathen myths or philosophic sneer. 
Stars are not deities ; nor do they draw 
Their being from unlegislated law. 
Creatures of God are they ; and Him, glad throng 
Of worshippers, they praise with waltz and song. 
Day fourth. A work well done, 
But the mighty Smith wrought on. 



72 THE DA YS OF GENESIS. 

DAY V. 

Oh ! who can chronicle what ages long 

The woods have thrilled with winged love and 

song ; 
How long, with threads of sunshine in their wake, 
The gamesome fish embroider stream and lake ? 
And tell me, science, did some 'prentice hand 
Engrave such forms on the Silurian strand, 
Give warlike morion to the trilobite. 
And eyes that gleamed from cones of jewelled 

light ? 
Vast is Thy work, O God, graded Thy plan ; 
But high-wrought types of life with earliest life 

began. 

A fifth day come and gone, 

But the mighty Smith wrought on. 

DAY VI. 

Said God : Open thy womb, thou barren earth ; 
To beasts that walk, and things that creep, give birth. 
Rallied red dust to life. " 'T is good," the Maker 

said ; 
" Now from the same dull mould let man be made. 
Nature lacks nothing save a lawful lord, 
And let him bear our image." At the word 
Stood man upon his heritage, soil made and soul. 
Child of the soil, 't is his the earth to rule ; 
Child, too, of heaven, to high hopes early blessed. 
'T is his to work with God, with God to rest. 

Lo, the Smith's labor done ! 

God's Sabbath has begun. 

DAY VII. 

Blest is the Sabbath-day. Hushed is the hive 
Of busy life. Now the still heart may live. 



NIGHT WATCHING. 73 

Vanish the phantom forms of yesterday, 

And unreal living to true life gives way. 

God speaks to silent hearts. Ah ! look and see 

Beyond this near horizon. Let eternity 

Tell what is earth, and life, and man ; and why 

Creation creeps thus low beneath a lofty sky ; 

And wherefore that slow week of work was blessed ; 

And why it ended in a Sabbath's rest. 

O Christ ! I wait the dawn. 

Bring my slow Sabbath on ! 



NIGHT WATCHING. 

The clock strikes Nine. I sink to rest 
Upon a soft and bolstered bed. 
Jesus, what pillow held Thy head ! 
What couch Thy breast ! 

The clock strikes Ten. With sleepless eye 
I stare into a spaceless gloom. 
Come hither, wandering soul ; stay home. 
Voices are nigh. 

Eleven. Peace ! needless monitor. 

Oh ! when the heart looks through her tears. 

To gaze upon the eternal years. 

What is an hour ? 

'T is midnight. No ; 't is holy noon. 
Love and sweet duty make the day. 
Night rules, with these two suns away ; 
Night, and no moon. 

Another hour, and yet no sleep. 
The darkness glows with solemn light. 
How full of language is the night ! 
And life how deep ! 



74 THE TRAMP. 

Already Two o'clock ! Well, well ; 
Myself and I have met at last, 
After long absence ; and the past 
Has much to tell. 

Ring out ! Ring out ! My watch I keep. 
O night, I feel thy sacred power ! 
How crowded is each holy hour 
Borrowed from sleep ! 

One, Two, Three, Four ! Ye speak to ears 
That hear but heed not how ye roll. 
The hours that measure for the soul 
Are spaced by tears. 

Strikes Five. Night's solemn shroud of crape 
Begins to fill with threads of gray ; 
And, stealing on those threads away. 
My joys escape. 

O stay with me ! I fear the light, 
With all its sins, and gay unrest. 
Sweeter the calm and conscious breast 
Of holy night. 



THE TRAMP. 

I know a little maiden 

Whose voice is soft and low. 

But whose feet, like the feet of a tramp, 
Are always on the go. 

Tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! 

Up and down for evermore, 
On through the streets, up by the steps, 

Up to some garret floor. 



THE TRAMP. 

Woe, gazing out to that sweet face, 

Forgets the inward pain. 
And, chastened by those cahii blue eyes, 

Sin worships God again. 

And reverently to his iron brow 
The prisoner lifts his hand, 

And on the hopeless child of shame 
Gleams light from the happy land. 

So up and down, and in and out, 
Through alleys dark and narrow, 

Mi-lady Bounty goes about 
In search of sin and sorrow. 

I said : " Are you the wandering Jew ? 

Is this a spell, a doom ? 
Are you bound to travel without rest 

Until the Saviour come ? 

"What need of so much tramping? 

Wise hearts will rest, and wait. 
Where too much is given to loving. 

Is not this to dissipate ! 

"Know, 'charity begins at home,' 
And by surcharge decreases." 

But those burning little feet 
Overtrod my exegesis. 

Her only answer was a smile. 
So sweetly and serenely gay 

That never, under cloudless sky, 
Reigned such untroubled day. 



75 



76 THE TRAMP, 

And I, ashamed of questioning 
Where grace had all decided, 

Stood from the way, and blessed the light 
By which those feet were guided. 

Anothor time I said : " Dear maid. 
This thing needs explanation. 

To every Christian soul God gives 
Some defmite vocation. 

*' Now where is yours t in the great world, 
Or where the cloister lilies grow ?" 

Right merrily she laughed, and said ; 
" Pray, tell me, sir, if you know." 

What could I say ? What can I say ? 

No vow, no veil, no convent grate 
Guards either busy eyes or feet, 

But free as air they circulate. 

Yet, somehow fenced, that gentle smile 

Admits no rude intrusion. 
'T is love's outlook from a cloistered heart 

That rules its own seclusion. 

So I leave her to her own daylight ; 

But my soul bounds betimes 
When those sunny eyes go by with smiles, 

And those roving shoes sing rhymes. 

And this is my faith : Can I but make 

My way to the golden door, 
I shall know the beat of two busy feet 

Upon the spirit floor. 



THE UNKNOWABLE. 



THE UNKNOWABLE. 



77 



They tell us God can never be made known ; 
That every thought of Him we try to frame 
Must of necessity be false ; His august name 
Itself out of gross ignorance is grown. 
He is the Unknowable ; He has no throne ; 
Religion is the soul's midnight, no more ; 
We can but bow before a darkened door 
Which meets all worship with a hollow groan. 

If this were so, how chill, how drear, how bare 
Would this our life be left ! A stifled cry ; 
A star astray in space without a sky ; 
A sky dismantled and without a star ; 
Wings fluttering wild against a prison bar ; 
Nothing this side to which the heart can cling. 
Nothing beyond to which a grief can sing, 
And in sweet song forget its load of care. 

Thanks to the gleaming skies ! it is not so — 
This undigested prate of learned quackery, 
Heart's night-scare, honest reason's mockery. 
Back, phantom, to the fog where thou didst grow ! 
Here thou art naught. My God I know ; 
His breath I feel ; His voice I hear ; 
He has been with me always, still is near. 
Nearer than aught vain science hath to show. 

I knew Thee, Lord, before myself I knew. 

My soul's first acquisition was the sense of want, 

I struggled into life's arena with a pant. 

My eager hands into the void I threw, 

Hoping to draw Thee into closer view ; 

And, when I found my feeble efforts fail. 



78 THE UNKNOWABLE. 

Self-conscious made by failure, with a wail 
I claimed the bliss I could not reach unto. 

Always to Love divine my love laid claim. 
I saw it gleaming through my Mother's eyes, 
Heaven couched within those lower skies. 
Vailing itself indeed from sensual aim, 
Yet lighting so their domes with depth of flame 
That finite love drew back into the boundless. 
And the approaching Infinite, though soundless, 
A conscious presence to my soul became. 

I claim an inborn sense of boundless power. 
Ah ! soon I learned that I myself was weak. 
Helpless to take what my high heart did seek. 
The consciousness of less grew from the vast more 
Bounds rose where spread the unlimited before. 
The knowledge thus acquired of force finite 
Threw my soul back upon her first inlight 
To feed a sense which hungered to adore. 

Then came the light of faith, boon rich and rare, 
Appealing both to insight and to outer sense, 
And making both to breed a rich experience. 
The earliest altar where my faith took air 
Itself was nothing but a knee ; yet there 
I bowed my knees, and found a sacred throne ; 
And, strong in faith, as at an altar stone. 
Through a sweet priestess offered my first prayer. 

Know Thee ! O God, the tale is all too old, 
How much we know. Earth, air, skies ring 
With Thee. All creatures band in choirs to sing 
Of Thee. The Bible gleams like burning gold 
Revealing Thee. Gray history to faith foretold. 
Ages ago by twilight. Thy grand scheme 



LEAVE TO LOVE. 79 

A world of ruined sinners to redeem, 
Showing Thyself to man in human mould. 

We know Thee infinitely mighty, free, good, sage, 
Just, faithful, merciful, long patient to endure, 
Changeless, and passionless. These marks are 

sure. 
Time takes naught, adds naught to Thy heritage ; 
Gives to Thy life no growth ; full is Thy foliage. 
Oh ! say ; in all the vast skies overarch. 
Is there so much to know, so much rewarding 

search, 
As Sacred Science shows on her broad page ? 

O God ! make thou me wise, and truly wise ; 
Not cyphering destinies by starry courses, 
Building eternal laws on chemic forces, 
To molecules reducing throbbing mysteries ; 
But give me wings to range through higher skies. 
Teach me that science of which Thou art sun ; 
Oh ! Light so early given, so surely known, 
Surpassing my weak sight, yet glistening in my 
eyes. 



LEAVE TO LOVE. 

A PRAYER. 

They say that she is an idol. 

And that my heart is wild, 

And they seek to measure and bridle 

My love for my child. 

A reflection only, not feature, 

Of that beauty which I should adore, 

They say that I equal this creature 

To the Creator, and more. 



80 LEAVE TO LOVE. 

They wonder Thou dost not remove her 
And take her away from me. 
Lord ! I ask leave to love her, 
And promise to love her in Thee. 

In her my fond heart traces 

A life's geography, 

The mapping of dear loved faces 

That once were a world to me. 

My quickened thought through her replaces 

Each well remembered line ; 

And, save the beauty and softened graces, 

(They tell me) much is mine. 

My homestead she. In her I recover 

My father's legacy. 

Lord ! I ask leave to love her, 

And promise to love her in Thee. 

Lord ! Thou dost scatter the morning rays 

Into needles of gold and white. 

Thy stars at evening cleave their ways. 

One by one, through the thin twilight. 

Till, like a target, the sky is riven 

With thick-strewn wounds of light. 

I read of Thee, God, in this crowded heaven — 

Grand volumes of day and night. 

So I read in my girl of the God above her 

Who gave the dear gift to me. 

Lord ! I ask leave to love her, 

And promise to love her in Thee. 

O Christ, art Thou not truly human ; 
The child of Mary, though divine ; 
Drawing full manhood from a woman ? 
Yea, that sweet life gave mould to Thine, 



^ 



LEAVE rO LOVE. 8 1 

Thy heart, all conscious of its kind, 
Throbs with our throbbing nature. 
Yet never ranges Heaven behind 
Or underneath the creature. 
So I love my child ; but far before her, 
My God, Thou art near to me ! 
I would not, I do not adore her ; 
Give me leave to love her in Thee 1 



Two eyes look out from a photograph 

Two eyes look down on me ; 

Since they can love, since they can laugh. 

Can they not also see ? 

Often God speaks through the young. 

May not this picture have a tongue 

To speak to me. 

And solve my doubts ? I bend my ear. 

I listen. Naught can I hear. 

No oracle is there. 

God sends no answer to my prayer. 

Is she an idol ? I fear, I fear 

My love is not lawful. 

Oh ! 't would be awful 

To take my death from one so dear ! 

Go deep, my soul, if thou wouldst keep her. 

And give thy conscience rest. 

Down to the centre of thy breast ! 

Deeper ! down deeper ! 

ANSWER TO THE PRAYER. 

" Wilt love thy child for her true good. 
Or for thine own delight ? 
Wilt fetter her young womanhood, 
Make her thy satellite ? 



82 LEAVE TO LOVE, 

I am sole centre of her orbit, 
The guidance of her life is mine ; 
I give thee no leave to absorb it 
With a sponge's love into thine." 
Lord ! take her ; keep her ; lead her ; move her 
Her path is free. 
I only ask leave to love her 
In Thee. 

" And if I give her to another, 
Knot her by marriage vow 
Stronger than claim of father or mother ; 
Wilt take thy place calmly now ? — 
In lieu of the early ties that bound her, 
See a new hearth-stone glow, 
New faces close in love around her, 
Nearer and dearer than thou ? " 
New faces may gather, new homes may cover 
The heart that once leaned on me ; 
God keep her ! I ask but to love her 
In Thee. 

" And if I call her maiden heart 
To solitude and prayer. 
Teach her to choose the better part 
With Mary ? Wilt leave her there ? 
With frequent footstep will thou come 
On her silent life to* intrude ? 
Or seek to move near to thy worldly home 
The walls of her solitude ? 
And thus, sly hypocrite, recover 
Thine Indian gift to me ? " 
Lord ! no ! I only ask to love her 
In Thee. 

" And if I choose to paralyze 
Her life while it is young ; 



LEAVE TO LOVE, 83 

Close to the light those speaking eyes, 
And muffle that sweet tongue ? , 

Wilt thou rebel ? 'T is I that gave. 
Mine is it to recall." 

Nay, Lord ! I know Thee strong to save. 
Take her to Thee ! Take all ! 
My tears shall water the grass that grows over 
All the world held of me. 
Yet, near or far, give me leave to love her 
In Thee ! 



I looked at the picture. A smile of surprise 
Lighted up with sudden glow. 
It mounted to the sunny eyes. 
And to the bower of curls that rise 
Above her brow. 

Her arms she stretched out wide and free, 
Like a bird that would fly to me. 
But here the beautiful vision ended ; 
The arms remained extended 
As if hanging to a tree ; 
The lips, so lately gleesome and glad, 
Grew as suddenly sad ; 
I saw the fair head stooping. 
And the eyelids drooping. 
Like those of the Man of woe. 
But I know ; but I know, 
However the knowledge came to me. 
That I have leave, Lord, to love her, — 
In Thee. 



84 THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION. 



THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION, 



Fair as the moon by night, 

And brighter than the noon-day sun, 

Sweet Mary stands alone 

In a flood of light. 

From her creation ; 

From life's first, earliest vibration ; 

From that first feeble palpitation 

Of a new life unseen, unknown. 

Except by God alone. 

She bore no mark of the primal curse. 

No taint from any source ; 

No stain of sin 

Wrought by herself, nor inbred and original, 

Marred that sweet body, fair and virginal. 

Or the pure soul within. 

In this beauty of her state 

She stands the glory of her race. 

Pure, holy, innocent, immaculate, 

And full of grace. 

In every quality of soul 

A matchless perfect whole ; 

In every line and feature 

A faultless, though a finite, creature. 

In truth 't is easy to believe 

In this exemption of Christ's holy mother 

From the birth-sin engendered by the other, 

The first and guilty Eve. 

It was a gift that could be given 

As readily as when, at the font, 



THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION. 85 

The water falls on the infant's front, 
And the pardon falls from Heaven. 
It was a simple, unconditioned fact, 
With only one party to the act. 
All-powerful was God to render ; 
Helpless sweet Mary's soul to hinder. 
Hail Mary ! From thy orient 
As spotless as the snow ! 
And hail the grace which did prevent, 
And made thee so ! 



There is, according to my thought, 

A harder problem here, which brings 

My uttermost imaginings 

To naught. 

When I recall that saintly life 

Of Mary, mother, daughter, wife, — 

And when I try to trace 

Its golden thread. 

As if the perfect web lay spread 

Before my face ; 

When, above all, 

I set me to recall 

Her life-long perseverance 

In spotless innocence and moral beauty, 

By the working of her ovvn sweet will ; 

Her close adherence 

To God's dear love, and prayer and daily duty ; 

Through doubt and sorrow faithful still ; 

Perfect in all ; — 

When I recall 

The matchless merit 

Of that sweet spirit. 

Aided indeed by grace, but always free : — 

Oh, then 't is hard for me, 



86 BEAUTY, 

All sick with error, 

To master my surprise ; 

To lift my eyes 

From the dark mirror 

Where my own life reflected lies 

Up to that radiant zodiac 

Where, like the moon in silver light 

Around the darkened globe, 

She moved through life in her own sweet track, 

In her own white robe. 

Queen of the night. ^ 

\ 

Mary, full of grace. 
Help me (for I am weak) 
To follow in thy trace ! 

Thy prayers, dear Mother, I bespeak. 
If thou wilt plead for this, 

1 cannot miss 
To find, some day, the home I seek. 



BEAUTY. 



Lady, thou 'art wondrous fair ; 

Thy features beam with life that speaks ; 

An aureole doth glorify thy hair, 

And turns to golden red on lip and cheeks. 

Yet, — now I look again with care, 

A better judgment tells me : No, 

The soul of beauty is left out somewhere. 

It was a passing dream. Go ! go ! 

Thou art not beautiful. I cannot bear 

So bright a vision undeveloped so. 

Stay ! Shall I tell thee, lady, what dost lack ? 
What turns into deformity thy grace ; 



A LETTER. 8/ 

Beclouds the sunshine of thy face, 
And makes thy lilies black ? 
The God of beauty better knows, 
Who planted all thy garden grows 
Of beauty. Ask Him in thy prayer. 
Perhaps too little sky, want of pure air ; 
Thou hast allowed the damp of earth to rise, 
And quench the earlier glory of thine eyes. 

Lady, God made thee lovely, and for love ; 
In crystal waters drowned thy native stain ; 
With light adorned thy soul, a gleaming grove 
Of faith, and golden hopes, that might detain 
Angelic eyes to wonder ; shaped thy hands 
To works of piety, and charitable toil, 
And sweet obedience to thy Lord's commands. 
Thou seemedst like blest Mary for a while. 
Alas ! now all is gone that was grace given. 
Coarse gems displace the jewelry of Heaven. 



A LETTER 

TO ALL WHOM IT MAY CONCERN. 

Albany, Feb. 22, 18S3. 
Gentlemen : — 
Bravely you 've done your work, and bravely shall 

be paid 
In such coin as you value and best know. 
Go, gentlemen, report to the constituent trade 
That sent you here, and take your quid pro quo. 
Assembled bondsmen of the brewery and still, 
Ye 've done your work with skill ; 
This meed your masters will accord you. 
They who have seen in secret your good-will 



88 A LETTER. 

Will openly reward you ; 
In sweet remembrance they *11 embalm you. 
What matter now if, veiled behind the dark, 
God's grand election day, for this day's dirty work, 
Should damn you ? 

Go to your homes ! Fires there maybe shine 

bright. 
There 's comfort in their warm and cheerful glow. 
Despair broods over many a heart to-night. 
Cold creeps the wind o'er many a hearth ye know. 
Ah ! what will light the scowl on that dark brow ? 
Oh ! who will drive the demon from that door ? 
Who will compensate for that parent's woe ? 
Take from remembrance that fierce oath, that 

blow, 
Which struck a wife and mother to the floor ? 
Who will give clothing, who give needed bread 
To that pale, starved, and shivering multitude, 
Unsheltered, unbefriended clusters of childhood 
Made orphans, not by death, but a death-dealing 

trade ? 
Your votes to-day have given to some new life ; 
But grief to many more. Wait ! Watch ! 
To see what yet may come to your door latch. 
Look to that child of yours ! Look to that wife ! 
Think you the grass will always grow so green 
Beside your walk, yet leave the walk so clean ? 
Will judgment, held by mercy always stay? 
Your Honors have made good men grieve to-day 
That wish no grief to you save to heal sin ; 
Yet, for all earth owns, would not these be in 
The blood trail tracking from your council hall. 
O God, Thy ways are holy ! 
"All silently and slowly 
Thy mills do grind, but grind exceeding small." 



A LETTER. 89 

Go smiling to your homes. If Christians, thence 

to church. 
First, smooth your faces to devotion at the porch ; 
Then enter boldly. Leave your true selves outside 
With your constituencies, gain, ambition, pride. 
Masked falsehood, fear of man, intrigue's subtended 

torch. 
The cant professional which hides the mind. 
The honest brow before, the open palm behind. 
Leave outside also your time-honored saw : 
'' Heaven has no rights that reach to civil law." 
Meet God with cleanly faces ; cover the dirt 
Upon your bosoms with a spotless shirt ; 
And as ye kneel before the altar there, 
Breathe whiffs of pepperminted praise and prayer. 
Talk freely of amending ; — will do better ; ah ! 
For your dear lives suppress one inconvenient fact. 
Say nothing of that " Act entitled an Act 
To amend an Act entitled an Act, et cetera^ 
Say not that your most honorable endorsement 
(When once the Honorable Senate shall concur, 
And his high Excellency the Governor) 
Has put a law of mercy past enforcement ; 
That now no longer Officers of a City 
May answer to a Nation's cry for pity ; 
But only secret scouts can tell aright 
Why Sunday windows gleam with lurid light. 

Go home till Monday, and to your Masters tell 
How well ye wrought, and give in your week's bill. 
But oh ! be sure that pens are taking notes 
Where conscience has no price, and hell no votes ; 
Where legislation rules that interest cannot shape. 
Where codes are made to bind, not to escape. 
Ay ! there may come a day, even here on earth, 
When your repeal's repeal shall thunder forth ; 



90 TRUE LOVE. 

When traders that resented all restriction, 

Would have no limits to their greed though largely 

granted, 
Shall have no more allotted, but be hunted, 
Like wolves by forest law, to interdiction. 
God grant relief ! Come gracious revolution ! 
The thunderbolt brings rain as well as retribution. 
Valete ! 

John Bird, of Albany. 



TRUE LOVE. 

Two lovers made love to Beauty, 
Lord Sentiment and loyal Duty. 
The first gazed wildly into the skies 
Which smiled through Beauty's eyes, 
And, forward made by lawless fire, 
And heedless to her deep abhorring. 
Seized the queen rudely by her attire. 

Now chiding, now imploring. 
But Duty watched her lily hand. 
Content to die at her command, 

Content to live adoring. 

Then came to my soul a revealing — 
That fealty is better than feeling. 
For as Nature throws aside her cloak 
When the north frost is broke, 
And steps into the summer, 
So Beauty, changing humor. 
Stepped smiling from -her virgin throne, 
And stood revealed in golden zone. 
With her mantle fallen from her. 



THE CHRISTIAN MUSE. 9 1 

And, in the glow of a far light 
That gleamed through the tissues of starlight, 
She showed me, close folded to her breast. 
Meek Duty, a cherished guest. 

With his head on her bosom lying. 
Came then a Voice, like the coo of a dove : 
" Who dies for me shall be my love, 

And find his life in dying ! " 



THE CHRISTIAN MUSE. 



I said to my Muse : Oh, sing ! 

And she sang all day. 

She summoned to her fairy ring 

Each grand, or strange, or beautiful thing, 

As fancy or feeling led the way. 

All nature shows of sight and sound 

Into some new wreath she deftly wound. 

Then cast aside in changeful play 

As fast as found. 

She sang how the bickering sparrows meet, 

When snow brings famine to the street ; 

How they wrangle together like wrangling men ; 

How they start, and flutter, and light again, 

Till suddenly all are gone. 

She heard the wind whisper the pines to sleep. 

Her ear caught the water-fall's rush and leap ; 

Then, sprinkled in through the monotone, 

Came grace notes in allegro, 

'T was the brook as he danced, with airy ease, 

From the foot of the fall, over many a row 

Of pebbly keys, 

To marry the lake below. 



92 THE CHRISTIAN MUSE. 

Round lips they lifted to salute 
The pressure of his velvet foot. 
She sang of all that nature gives 
To field-flowers, or the forest leaves. 
All memories into music grew, 
And floated by in swift review. 
But under all, and all above, 
And woven through, and all around. 
With every wreath of sight, or sound, 
She sang thy praise, creative Love. 

II. 

I said to my Muse : Oh, sing ! 

Sing of the silent night ; 

For silence is my delight. 

Let silence, holy silence, bring 

Her serenades to charm my heart 

With supersensual art. 

Silence has waves that flood the ear, 

Yet stir not the coarse atmosphere ; 

A minstrelsy all soft and low, 

Such as the minstrel Seraphs know, 

When intuitions like far whispers steal 

Upon the hours, 

And hermit souls are made to thrill 

With unaccustomed powers. 

When evening drops a kindly veil 

Over the tired eye ; 

When the book is laid down with a weary sigh 

When vulgar habit, and the low real, 

Make room for the perfect and ideal ; 

'T is then, dear Lyra, thou comest to me 

W^ith all thy bodiless company, — 

Eyes myriad, that come and go ; 

All beautiful are they, with the glow 

Of truth shining through mystery. 



THE CHRISTIAN MUSE. 93 

Then, with the witchery of thine art, 
Thou layest thy fingers on my heart. 
Full is it of most tremulous strings, 
And their vibration would unman me 
With an excess of feeling. 
Save that the air is full of wings 
That fan me. 
And that thy touch is healing.. 

night ! like prophecy thou fallest on me, 
Visions of truth revealing. 

The skies never gleam through the mist of light 

So grand, so beautiful, so clear, 

To thought so full, to hope so near, 

As they show in the unmantled night. 

Sing on ! my winged Maid, sing on ! 

Sing out ! sing out ! 

Now you and I are all alone 

In fellowship with airy thought. 

Then from her swelling throat 

There burst a flood of melody. 

Ah ! well a day ! 

Ask not the Poet to repeat 

The revelations which to night belong. 

The day which breaks up his retreat 

With glare of sun, and noise of gong, 

Leaves the soul haunted, 

Preoccupied, distracted, still enchanted. 

By wraiths of dim dismembered song. 

III. 

1 said to my Muse : Oh, sing ! 

Fill the great lungs of the organ full, 
And to it lend thy deepest soul ; 
To God I owe an offering. 
My Muse is an artless, simple spirit ; 
Nothing she said 



94 THE CI/RISTIAIV MUSE. 

To make a show of modest merit, 

But instantly obeyed. 

At first she roved among the keys, 

As if to find some fallen thread, 

Some plume of memory mislaid ; 

But, failing these, 

She raised her earnest eyes to Heaven 

Where sacred harmony is begot. 

Twin inspiration to high thought. 

And both were given. 

All solemn then, and tremulous, like a passion 

That gathers force from strong compression, 

A thousand interweaving notes 

Out-issuing from as many throats, 

The organ gave forth its artillery. 

It flooded the vaulting, mid-air, and floor, 

And rocked the knees of the gallery. 

Was it the sea came in to adore 

With its wealth of waves ? 

Was it he brought in from coral caves 

Such treasures of worship to the shore ? 

And, riding that flood with silvery words. 

What voice lent thought to the throbbing chords ? 

Dear Lyra, the voice was thine ; 

But thought, breath, utterance, were all divine. 

Oh ! forever will I treasure 

The pleasure beyond map or measure 

Which that hour of joy in trance made mine. 

Then the Altar lighted with sudden show, 
And the Holy Volume seemed aglow ; 
Flames that climbed up the chancel piers 
Fell dropping like wax from the frieze. 
As hearts uplifted high in praise 
Oft end in tears. 



MUSA EXTATICA. 95 

I saw electric sparks of light 

Leap from the Prophet's hair, 

Weaving swift circles in the air. 

The Sanctuary was all bright. 

I saw the Crucifix bleeding ; — 

Ah ! sweet it was, but solemn and dread, 

To see the eyes turn in the Holy Head 

So woful and so pleading. 

I felt, as never before, 

That to pray is less than to adore ; 

That one vast mighty mystery 

Comprises human history ; 

That these are one, — Victim, High-Priest, 

And Lamb of a perpetual feast ; 

That altars are God's theatres, where 

In sacred scenery is shown 

Love lifting red hands to the Overthrone ; 

That sacrifice is bleeding prayer. 

And goeth ever on. 

Then I vowed a vow, as in that mood 
I pressed to my breast the holy Rood, 
And bent my head to the floor ; 
My Muse shall sing the praise of God, 
Or sing no more. 



MUSA EXTATICA. 

The altar tiles are under her feet. 

Buff and blue ; 

The tiles lie smooth beneath her feet. 

But touch not her sandal shoe. 

Her eyes entranced might seem to gaze 

Where arches concentrate and meet 

In a maze ; 

But the arches are not in view. 



96 MUSA EXTATICA. 

Where does the vision lie ? 

What fixes the maiden's eye ? 

What makes her smile ? 

Is it far, or is it near ? 

What makes her garments float so clear 

Above the bed of tile ? 

They are not lifted by the air. 

Why hold her hands behind her head, 

Dipped in that foam of golden hair, 

As if she heard some distant tread, 

And stood prepared to call ? 

Why does her bosom rise and fall ? 

Its even swell of deep emotion 

Is like the roll on a placid ocean 

Of billows from afar. 

Who can tell what these billows are ? 

Is it joy coming, or desire outgoing ? 

Does she command, or is she wooing ? 

Why does she smile ? why bend her brow ? 

Why nod ? why beckon now. 

Whiles censuring, and whiles approving? 

Is she conveying her desire 

To some viewless choir, 

Or a crowd of spirits moving ? 

Wait ! wait ! Now she is still. 

If thou hast a poet's ear 

For sacred song, come near ! 

The beating of her heart will tell 

'' Lo ! me on holy ground, 

With burning bushes all around. 

Oh ! whither shall I turn ? 

I burn ! I burn ! 

Electric currents come and go. 

They thread my spirit through and through 

And a crowding tide of thought 



MUSA EX TA TIC A. 97 

Holds my spirit overwrought, 

And urges love to fond despair. 

Oh ! give me air ! 

I die ! I die ! 

Blow on me from the upper sky, 

Or joy that has no breath, 

Unsung must end in death. 

Oh ! give me air divine ! 

Brace me with the breath of wine ! 

Give me such milk as flows from the breast 

Of the all-hallowing Eucharist, 

That I may troll 

Sweet carols to the Oversoul. 

Either fill me 

With blood of song, or kill me. 

" Oh 1 I am drunk, but not with drink ; 

Wild, but not all beyond command. 

How could imagination think 

To gauge, by law of plumb and line, 

A vision reared by heavenly wand, 

A beauty all entrancing and divine. 

Which makes thought reel as if with wine ? 

It steals my reason, yet I own it ; 

It steals my thought to crown it. 

My heart in sweet delirium 

Lies safe at home. 

It gives me more than it can take. 

Though I leave all for its dear sake ; 

A mighty vision haunts me. 

Enchants and disenchants me. 

Heals my wounds, yet makes me bleed. 

Not for the world would I dispel it. 

Oh ! could I, as I see it, tell it, 

I were a bard indeed. 



98 MUSA EXT A TIC A. 

" Oh ! I am mad, but not with folly, 

Sad am I without melancholy. 

Glad, but with sober merriment ; 

Fond am I, without detriment 

To reason. Bonded to higher will 

That may not be denied, 

My own I seek to kill, 

All fearless of the suicide. 

Oh ! I am calm, 

I know where I am. 

Yea, when most overwrought 

I still am mistress of my thought ; 

Though oft to others 1 may seem 

A vessel driving to the coast 

On the foam of a dream. 

And utterly lost, 

There 's method in my madness. 

There 's measure in my gladness ; 

And into rhythmic rule I bring 

True anthems to my Lord and King. 

Of love, all ruling love, I sing. 

By love inspired, by love oppressed. 

Within my breast 

Electric forces gathering 

Leap into buds ; 

Thoughts crystallize into thick geodes ; 

The grasses wave their myriad flags ; 

Hills helmeted with lofty crags 

Rein up like warriors ; 

The hemlocks bending low, 

Like water carriers, 

Beneath their yokes of snow. 

Keep measure with their feet 

To the time I beat ; 

Pines, crowding to look o'er 

The common score, 



MUSA EXT A TIC A. 99 

Bend eagerly down till their bonnets meet ; 

Clouds march in groups ; 

Waves march in columns over the sea ; 

Stars gallop in troops ; 

Nights and days keep time ; 

The fuguing seasons chime 

With nature and with me ; — 

All praise the Lord together. 

To the last cliffs of space I shout, 

My choristers to gather. 

Sing out ! sing out ! 

Keep tune, keep time, 

To the pitch and motion of my rhyme ! 

Faster ! faster ! faster ! 

Look at me ! 

One ! two ! three ! 

'T is the measure of the mighty Master. 

So beats revolving life in Trinity. 

'T is the secret of infinity — 

Who keeps true time shall time outlast ; 

Who loses, stubbornly slow. 

From heaven shall be outcast, 

And its music shall never know. 

Sing all ! sing out ! 

Prolong the chant with joyous shout. 

Faith praises with untiring tongue. 

The hearts that weary die unblest, 

Harps must not be unstrung, 

Love may repose but never rest." 



100 THE RATIONAL, 

THE RATIONAL 

(EXOD. xxviii, 15.) 
I. 

I see the Ark. I see where meet, 

And cross, the wings of cherubim 

O'ershadowing the Mercy-Seat. 

I see at the altar the form of him 

That blesseth and is blest. 

I see in ephod, mitre, robe, and vest. 

And golden broidery and braid, 

Aaron the Priest, 

Great Prophet and High Pontiff, all arrayed 

As on that solemn feast 

When the Paschal Lamb is slain. 

And, hung by many a loop and chain, 

I see upon his breast 

The RATIONAL, or judgment plate. 

It is a holy spell. 

It bears the names and gathering fate 

Of the tribes of Israel. 

It is God's oracle, whence emanate, 

As from celestial womb, 

Doctrine and doom. 

Man of God ! I fear thee. 
Although thy feet 

Approach so near the Mercy-Seat, 

1 tremble to be near thee. 
The fear I feel 

Is not for what thou hast, or art. 
But what thy breastplate doth conceal. 
Thou bearest upon thy heart 
God's wisdom, and God's will ; 



i 



THE RATIONAL. loi 

That which I love, that which I dread, — 

Doctrine, and doom ; 

A light, a gloom ; 

Light to the living, gloom to the dead. 

Holy doctrine is sweet to know ; 

But truth can bless, and truth can bind ; 

The light that fills the eye can blind ; 

And thus God's holy will also 

Brings joy, or woe. 

Much is required where much is given ; 

And therefore, O Tribes of Israel, 

We that have largest hopes in heaven 

Have most to fear in hell. 



II. 

Twelve jewels radiate 

On the High-Priest's judgment plate ; 

Twelve jewels, with each a name ; 

And among the rest 

I see the purple amethyst. 

It sparkles like a flame ; 

It has the color of wine ; 

It glitters like a star ; 

Its number is nine ; 

It bears the name of Issachar, 

And the name is mine. 

Each jewel is a mystery. 

Four rows of gems, each row with three. 

The amethyst is ninth in order ; 

It means : the thought of eternity. 

And the weird of Issachar is '^He 

That coucheth upoji the border'' 

Such is my weird. So my life lies. 
Upon a borderline I couch ; 



102 THE RATIONAL, 

Dreading the forward step, I crouch 

Between two vast eternities. 

On either hand they stretch away 

Into the night, into the day. 

Shall the endless daylight cover me ? 

Shall the eternal night close over me ? 

I cannot say. 

But time will speedily show ; 

The doubt will clear away, 

And I shall know. 

O consecrated Priest ! 

There is truth in that jewelled breast. 

Light glows on that Amethyst. 

The name it bears is a revelation 

Shall guide my soul to her salvation. 

Oh ! hither turn that flaming core ! 

And, blazed upon my brain. 

Dread memory of eternity remain 

Forevermore ! 



MARANATHA. 

(" If any man love not the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be 
Anathema Maran-atha ! " — I. Cor. xvi., 22.) 



A curse cannot be given in wrath. 
With venomed tongue and vengeful eye. 
The wordy passion passes by 
Harmless, mere vapor of hot breath. 

A curse is the scald of an injured tear ; 
A coal of pity dropped from above ; 
The farewell spoken by wearied love 
In the hardened prodigal's ear. 



MA RA NA THA . 103 

A curse is a fever that springs from a cold ; 
A flame that dies out into frost ; 
The change of bright love into rust ; 
Warm life into withering mold. 

The life of God is our central fire ; 
Grand Heart, whose nature is to warm. 
We draw great blessing, or great harm, 
As we approach Him, or retire. 



II. 

'T is not the ban-crier makes the ban. 
The root of a curse is cankering sin. 
The undying worm is born within. 
And gnaws where its life began. 

No lightning is forged at the Overthrone ; 
The furnace lies on a lower level. 
The fire recoils on the doer of evil, 
And the blast by himself is blown. 

A curse is no thing of real birth. 
But a blessing lost that might have been. 
The cold abortion lies suckled by Sin ; 
Hope's ghost glares wild at a vacant hearth. 

Therefore Anathema to thee, 
O thou that lovest not the Christ ! 
Gauged by the deep grace sacrificed, 
Deep shall thy Maranatha be. 



104 SCENES AT THE HOLY HOME. 



SCENES AT THE HOLY HOME. 

SCENE I. 

(How St. Joseph aroused the Holy Family at dawn ; and 
how he dismissed it at night.) 

Wake ! Mary, wake ! Drive sleep away ! 
The dawn is near, and only waits 
For the opening of the.eastern gates 
To flood our valley with the day. 

Wake ! wake ! for Jesus' sake ! 

Wake ! Mary, wake ! Smiling in beauty, 
The Holy Babe would have us show 
How sweet is duty where love is true ; 
And that all true love is duty. 

Wake ! wake ! for Jesus' sake ! 



Good-night, dear Mary ! 'T is time to rest. 
Now lay thy busy work away. 
Behold the eyelids of the day 
Fast closing in the drowsy west. 

And to Thee, blest Babe, good-night ! 

Good-night ! How nigh the silver moon 
And all the budding stars appear ! 
How sweet to think that Heaven comes near 
At night to smile on duty done ! 

Mother and Babe, good-night ! 

SCENE II. 

(How St. Joseph taught the Child Jesus to walk ; and what 
the Child taught him.) 

Creeping on the cottage floor, 
On the margin of the Nile, 



SCENES AT THE HOLY HOME. 1 05 

In the land of His exile ; 

Creeping to the open door, 

A little child (twelve months or more) 

Looked out upon the street, 

Oh ! it was passing sweet 

To see that face so infantine, 

So mingling human with divine ; 

And watch those little legs drag on, 

Unable to walk, unable to stand ; 

And see Him plant that little hand 

For a forefoot to walk upon. 

" Now come to me," the Father said. 

And lifted Him to His feet ; 

" Thou shalt walk to me upon the street. 

Stand straight ! Be not afraid ! 

And, when the trip has been fairly made. 

See here what a cake to eat ! " 

How strange, from Joseph such a word 

To his Creator, Saviour, Lord ! 

How strange, with gifts and childish talk. 

Bribing weak Deity to walk ! 



Then the Child unloosed his little tongue, 

And He laughed right merrily. 

And He spoke quite cheerily : 

" I '11 teach thee, dear Father, to walk along 

Less awkwardly and wearily. 

I have tottered only to thy knee. 

With gait unstaid, and irresolute. 

Not knowing how to put down My foot ; 

But thou shalt walk to Me, 

With a footstep strong and even. 

As far as hence to the highest heaven. 

There, Pharaoh's Joseph, thou shalt reign 

Viceroy ; and a vast multitude, 



I06 SCENES AT THE HOLY HOME. 

All tottering for want of food, 

Shall change their famine for thy grain." 

SCENE in. 

(How the Child Jesus learned to talk ; and how He taught 
St. Joseph to be silent.) 

One evening the Holy Family 

Were gathered in the Egyptian land, 

At Cairo, a poor and fugitive band, 

Yet richly blest in their poverty ; 

Jesus, and Mary, and Joseph — these three. 

Then Joseph the Boy to speech beguiled. 

" Say Mary ! say Mary ! dear child." 
The Infant's voice was launched in the air ; 
And the name was spoken so soft and clear, 
Speech never sounded in mother's ear 
So musical and fair. 

"Say Father, now," then Joseph prayed ; 
And " Abba ! Abba ! Abba ! " He said. 
The title sprang from that velvety tongue 
So sweet, and full of cheer. 
The choirs of Paradise checked their song. 
And leaned on their harps to hear. 
The voice was distant ; yet not a throat 
In all their throng could sound a note 
To make the distant seem so near. 



Then a silence dropped on the Patriarch's soul ; 

It lasted long, 

Like the silence that follows a sweet song. 

Which has filled the spirit full, 

And every sense beguiled. 

The Boy-God looked up at His Mother and smiled, 



SCENES AT THE HOLY HOME. 10/ 

And whispered : " This silence will not end, 
'T is my gift to a beloved friend." 

Now the life of Joseph has been recorded, 

And justice full to his love awarded, 

Yet not one word from his mouth is penned. 

The Sacred Record shows thus always, 

To reader or hearer, 

That silent duty is counted dearer 

Than the loud tongue of praise. 

SCENE IV. 

(How St. Joseph taught the Holy Child to pray, and learned 
from Him a higher prayer.) 

" Come hither, Jesus, to my knee ; 

Fold Thy hands, and pray with me : 

* Our Father ! that dost in Heaven live, 

Praise to Thy Name be given ! 

May all on earth one truth believe, 

And do Thy will as done in Heaven ! 

May we our daily bread receive. 

With daily grace to leaven ! 

As we do freely all forgive, 

So be our sins forgiven ! 

Temptations from our bosoms drive ; 

In danger be our haven ! ' 

It is a good prayer, my Son. 

'T is good for the evil ; 't is good for the just ; 

'T is good for all the children of dust ; 

And for thee, if thou be one." 



Slowly the Child repeated the prayer 
Until He had it all by heart, 
Gravely reciting the sinner's part 
As if His own need were there : 



I08 SCENES AT THE HOLY HOME. 

Then to the wondering Patriarch said : 

" Beautiful is this form of prayer, 

And I will make it my special care 

To have it by all nations prayed. 

But I will teach thee to pray without form, 

And so thy bosom warm 

With love divine, 

And hold it pressed so close to mine, 

That prayer shall be all one with duty ; 

And, save in thy appointed task, 

Thine eyes shall find on earth no beauty, 

Thy heart no other joy shall ask. 

Noiseless work, and wordless prayer, 

Silent service everywhere ; 

And not a word shall fall from thee 

To fill a blank in history. 

SCENE v. 

(How Jesus and Joseph wrought together ; and how a 
shadow crept into their shop.) 

Jesus and Joseph at work ! Hurra ! 

Sight never to see again, 

A 'prentice Deity plies the saw, 

While the Master ploughs with the plane. 

Merrily rise the curling chips, 

Quick brushed with the hand away ; 

From iron teeth to the floor fast drips 

A dusty wooden spray. 

Mysterious Heaven ! 

Is this the Prince of promise given 

To take our sins away ? 

Work ! work ! work ! 

Through the long day till nearly dark, 

Then Joseph said to the Infant : " Stop ! 



SCENES AT THE HOLY HOME. 1 09 

Fast fall the eyelids of the west ; 

'T is time, dear Boy, to rest. 

I bide here in the shop ; 

There is more work I trow." 

Said Jesus : '' I have more than thou. 

Thy work will soon be done ; 

And the reward is near. 

The work of my life is scarce begun ; 

Yet my last wood to work upon 

Stands always between me and the sun, 

And its shadow reaches here." 



Two lengths of timber, — that is all. 

One lay aslant ; one stood upright. 

They intercepted the western light 

On its way to the wall. 

When Jesus stretched His arms in the air, 

As often the weary do, 

A shadowy form was pictured there, 

Like the forecasting of a woe 

Before a fated soul held up ; 

And the dark scene of deicide 

Seemed there by spectre typified, 

Or pre-enacted in the shop. 

" Why dost thou start, dear Father, thus ? 

Why dost thou gaze at the wall ? 

'T is but a shadow after all." 

" I see the shadow of a cross, 

Such as slaves are hung upon. 

But — what pierces my bosom through and through- 

I see a shadowy victim too. 

The shape is thine own, my Son. 

O Jesus, my innocent Boy ! 

Is this the employ 

That waits for Thee ? 



no THE W INDIGO. 

Must Thou work out this destiny ? " 

" Say naught, dear Father," the Boy replied ; 

" The eye hath seen ; the tongue must hide. 

And the heart forget if it may. 

Behold the doom that shades my path ! 

'T is the shadow of God's love ; 't is wrath ; 

'T is mine, and I must bide my day." 



THE WINDIGO.* 

By the lodge light crouching like a snail, 
Creeping like a snake along the trail, 
Hiding in the bushes like an owl. 
Meeting every gazer with a scowl. 
Uttering the same unearthly howl. 

Agh-ghu, agh-ghu ; 

Eth-o-ne, ogh, agh-ghu ! 

Withered hag ! Is this the Maquas maid 
Stood once straight and shapely as a reed ? 
Woe to the lodge of Matsoree ! What thief 
Quenching the light of Teonontogen's chief 
Has changed its glory to an idiot grief ? 

Agh-ghu, agh-ghu ; 

Eth-o-ne, ogh, agh-ghu I 

Came to the lodge a warrior of great fame ; 
Wyandot widows howled to hear his name. 
When he sat down why did Yaweko rise ? 
The scornful maiden, wilful and not wise, 
Had let a young Oneida look into her eyes. 

Agh-ghu, agh-ghu ; 

Eth-o-ne, ogh, agh-ghu ! 

* Windigo is the name given by our Northern Indians to a 
fabulous cannibal ghost. 



THE WINDIGO. Ill 

The moon looked down from an angry sky, 
Looked down with a blot of red in its eye. 
A brave lay couched in a shroud of snow. 
One hand an arrow grasped ; no bow. 
The barb lay deep in his breast below. 

Agh-ghu, agh-ghu ; 

Eth-o-ne, ogh, agh-ghu ! 

"Fairly I struck him, his face to me," 

Said the young Oneida to Matsoree. 

" Stags fight for mates ! 'T is the law of the wood ; 

But, if gifts be needed to stanch this blood, 

Lo ! I and my tribe will make it good." 

Agh-ghu, agh-ghu ; 

Eth-o-ne, ogh, agh-ghu ! 

Hard was the mother's heart as stone ; 
Cold was the Sachem's eye as the cold moon. 
Still as the moon braves strode in wrathful mood 
Through air all sickened with the scent of blood. 
Dogs howled their wonder to the wondering wood. 

Agh-ghu, agh-ghu*; 

Eth-o-ne, ogh, agh-ghu ! 

" Oh ! fly, my love ; to-night let us go forth. 
Taronyawakon blanketed in snow calls north. 
Rivers and lakes are secret and discreet ; 
Ice takes no print from soft and wary feet ; 
Leaves whisper low when cautious lovers meet." 

Agh-ghu, agh-ghu ; 

Eth-o-ne, ogh, agh-ghu ! 

" Yaweko, no ; I fear to tempt the night. 

I see ghosts climb in crowds the northern light. 

The mountain Oki lash the winds to storm. 



112 THE WINDIGO. 

I saw to-day, with malediction warm, 
Under the ice green lizards swarm." 

Agh-ghu, agh-ghu ; 

Eth-o-ne, ogh, agh-ghu ! 

" Haste, O my brave ; these words are wild. 
The forests know and love a forest child. 
Nothing fear I from the helpless dead ; 
But I fear the sound of a vengeful tread, 
And a silent tongue when the eye is red ! " 

Agh-ghu, agh-ghu ; 

Eth-o-ne, ogh, agh-ghu I 

Who cross so fleet the Kayadutta's glen ? 
Who print the snow with crimson'd moccasin ? 
Through waves of angry clouds the moon swims 

west ; 
Streamers of hairy fire stretch from her crest ; 
The hollow ground groans like a sinner's breast. 

Agh-ghu, agh-ghu ; 

Eth-o-ne, ogh, agh-ghu ! 

" Ha ! see, my love, a dead-house all forlorn ! 
Here find we rest awhile, here wait for morn." 
" Yaweko, no ; no living thing I dread ; 
But I fear the breath of the unburied dead, 
And the clammy air where a corpse has laid." 

Agh-ghu, agh-ghu ; 

Eth-o-ne, ogh, agh-ghu ! 

" Fear naught, my brave ; trust to love's Manito. 
The power to hurt dies with a dying foe. 
Here borrow we from death shelter and rest. 
Lo me thy guard ! Be thou to-night love's guest ; 
Pillow thy fears upon Yaweko's breast." 

Agh-ghu, agh-ghu ; 

Eth-o-ne, ogh, agh-ghu ! 



THE WINDIGO. II3 

Upward like leaping dogs leaped the red flame. 
Gleamed a wild fire on guilty love and shame ; 
Died like spent love into an ashy heap. 
Heugh ! see that shape into the cabin creep ! 
Aireskoe ! what eyeballs glare upon their sleep ! 

Agh-ghu, agh-ghu ; 

Eth-o-ne, ogh, agh-ghu ! 

Wake ? wake Yaweko ! Sleep not thus alone. 
List ! list, Yaweko ! Was not that a groan ? 
Something within the darkness bodes no good ; 
Something as if strong teeth were tearing food ; 
Something as if a tongue were lapping blood. 

Agh-ghu, agh-ghu ; 

Eth-o-ne, ogh, agh-ghu ! 

Quick from her blanket sprang the frightened maid, 

Raked the dull embers into coals of red. 

What greets her burning sight ? what stains the 

floor? 
Teeth all unseen her mate to remnants tore. 
Yaweko, he will look into thine eyes no more ! 

Agh-ghu, agh-ghu ! 

Eth-o-ne, ogh, agh-ghu • 

Out through the doorway wild the maiden sprang, 

Wildly behind a ghostly war-whoop rang. 

What holds that shadowy hand ? What stays the 

blow ? 
'T is the totem of her tribe, her mother's Manito. 
Thou 'rt saved, Yaweko, saved for a long woe. 

Agh-ghu, agh-ghu ; 

Eth-o-ne, ogh, agh-ghu ! 

Therefore in fear she crouches like a snail ; 
Therefore she creeps snake-like upon the trail ; 



114 PAPOOSE'S FROLIC. 

Therefore she stares at nothing like an owl ; 
Therefore she sends to gazing eyes a scowl ; 
Therefore that hopeless and unceasing howl. 

Agh-ghu, agh-ghu ; 

Eth-o-ne, ogh, agh-ghu ! 



PAPOOSE'S FROLIC. 

Wah-wah ! Wah-wah ! He wakes ! 
Open two round little lakes. 
How soft ! How bright ! How deep ! 
Sleep, my papoose, ah, sleep ! 

Wah-wah ! Wah-wah ! 

Is this my own papoose, 
Or is it a little mouse ? 
So sly he comes ; creep, creep ; 
Shugh ! Little mouse, go sleep ! 
Wah-wah ! Wah-wah ! 

I see a head ! A bear ! 
I hear a growl ! 'T would scare 
The soul of the mighty Kryn. 
Sleep, bear ! Go sleep again ! 

Wah-wah ! Wah-wah ! 

What moons so full and wide 
Peep over the cradle side ? 
They light up all the lodge. 
Will ye not sleep ? Dodge ! Dodge ! 
Wah-wah ! Wali-wah ! 

Sleep now. Asontha comes. 
I feel his shadowing plumes. 



ADORO TE DEVOTE. 1 15 

The night-king stoops, my boy, to cast 
Soft furs upon thy breast, 

Wah-wah ! Wah-wah ! 



ADORO TE DEVOTE. 

A FREE TRANSLATION. 

Adoring I draw near, O august Deity, 

That hidest Thy true presence in this mystery. 

My breathless spirit fails me when I think of 

Thee, 
And leaves my heart alone to worship Thee. 

My sight, my touch, my taste are all deceived in 

Thee ; 
Trusting to sound alone I have believed in Thee. 
The word of Christ makes my unfaltering faith 

secure. 
No guaranty of earth or heaven can be more sure. 

Upon the cross was hidden Thy divinity. 
But here Thou hidest also Thy humanity. 
Freely confessing both, I seek with penitence 
What sought the dying thief, and in like confidence. 

" My Lord ! my God ! " the slow-believing Thomas 

cried. 
I cannot see, as Thomas did. Thy wounded side ; 
Yet the same joyous greeting here I bring to Thee, 
And with like faith and hope and love I cling to 

Thee. 

O dear memorial of a Saviour's charity ! 
O living bread that giveth life eternally ! 



Il6 DIES IRJE. 

Give to my soul that hungering appetite 
Which finds in Thee alone true life, and sweet 
delight. 

Fond Pelican ! while at Thy bosom feeding, 

wash my spirit clean by its dear bleeding ! 

1 know, one drop alone is competent to pay 
The ransom of a world, and wash its sin away. 

O Jesus ! Thou art here, but veiled and hidden. 
Faith sees what is to longing eyes forbidden. 
Haste, Lord, and bring that day of grace to me, 
Which in full glory shall reveal Thy face to me ! 



DIES IR^. 

Oh, that day ! That day of terror ! 
Prophet's word and Sibyl's finger 
Point to one dread day of anger 

When the skies shall warp and wither ; 
Oceans shrink and dry together ; 
Solid earth relapse to cinder. 

Day of Nature's dissolution ! 
Day of final retribution ! — 
Some to joy, and some to sorrow. 

Hark ! the trumpet, — blast terrific ! 
Now the dead, in mingled panic, 
'Gather to the dread assizes. 

Death shall stand aghast, and Nature, 
When from dust the summon'd creature 
JRises trembling to make answer. 



DIES IRyE. \\j 

Ah ! the wonder ! Oh ! the wailing ! 
When the heavens above unveiling 
Show the Judge of all descending ! 

Now begins the awful session. 
Sinner, make thy full confession. 
Naught avails the least evasion. 

Lo ! the Book of Doom ! Each action, 
Secret sin, or bold transgression, 
Idle word, foul thought, is noted. 

Strictest justice is accorded ; 
Grace to gracious deed afforded. 
Death to deadly sin awarded. 

Where the Saints must fear and tremble, 
Could I stand the tett, thus sinful ? 
Could I find a plea for pardon ? 

Could an advocate avail me ? 
Pleas and advocates all fail me. 
Jesus, Thou alone canst save me. 



Mighty Monarch ! Oh, remember 
That blest day of blest December ! 
'T was for me the Virgin bore Thee. 

Seeking me, beside the fountain 

Thou didst rest Thee ; to the mountain, 

For my sake, Thou didst betake Thee. 

On that dear Cross, to redeem me. 
Thou didst hang. Lord ! is it seemly. 
So much costing, I should perish ? 



Il8 MID-LENT. 

Thou didst smile on Mary's unction, 
Thoughtful love, and deep compunction 
On the dying thief's confession. 

Like them guilty, like them grieving, 
Like them loving and believing, 
Lord ! I claim a like compassion. 

To Thy mercy I confide me ; 
From Thy justice, Saviour, hide me 
Ere that day of dread accounting. 

Oh ! that scene of strange uprising ! 

Oh ! that solemn criticising ! 

Oh ! that judgment past revising ! 



Peace to thee, departed brother, 
Tenant once of this cold clay ! 
Jesus ! give him rest alway. 



Amen. 



MID-LENT. 

[A revived legend.] 

Lone was the desert where Christ fasted ; 

Dark and dreary was the shade 

Wherein He hid and prayed. 

Forty days and nights it lasted ; 

Yet scarce the half was made 

When, deeper straying in the gloom. 

He came to a place so wild and bare, 

It seemed no being could make it a home, 

Save that Man of Prayer, 

Or some lion seeking a lair. 

Here, pacing slowly back and forth, 



MID-LENT. 119 

With His eyes to the earth, 

And His heart on high, 

In His path so hard and dry 

A rose he found, 

A large and lovely rose, 

Such as never grows 

Save in the kindliest ground. 

" Thanks ! Father," He said, " I comprehend. 

This lesson is all divine ; 

And it shall go from me to mine. 

And be treasured to the end. 

I would not have my followers fast 

Like the proud Pharisee, 

With faces long and overcast. 

Apes of a sour sanctity. 

But I would have their desert bear 

Such fruits of fasting and of prayer 

That, while the body hides its pain, 

The soul's deep joy may be seen." 

Then plucking the rose, with a heavenly smile, 

The stem to His bosom He pressed. 

The secret thorns sank into His breast, 

But the flower bloomed gay the while. 

One Sunday always in Mid-Lent 

The altar, which before was bare. 

Is decked with flowers, and made to wear 

A look of bright content. 

By this we mean to call again 

The lesson that our Lord has given, — 

That penance, to be prized in heaven. 

Must learn to smile on pain. 

Nor is there need to feign ; 

For God will send to such penitent 

Sweet flowers to blossom on his Lent, 

Which elsewhere will be sought in vain. 



120 THE GATHERING OF THE GUILD. 



THE GATHERING OF THE GUILD.' 

Hark the tread of the Guild resoundeth ! 

Steadily, oh ! Steadily, oh ! 
Lightly every bosom boundeth ; 

Merrily, oh ! Merrily, oh ! 
Promptly at the call. 

Spite of wind and weather, 
Friends and brothers all, 
Gayly we gather. 

CHORUS. 

Round the banner, Guildsmen, rally ! 

Merrily, oh ! Merrily, oh ! 
Merrily, merrily, merrily, oh ! 

Merrily, oh ! Merrily, oh ! 

Wearily home the drunkard turneth ; 
Wearily, oh ! Wearily, oh ! 
Drearily there the fire burneth ; 

Drearily, oh ! Drearily, oh ! ' 
Oh ! the heavy head ! 

Oh ! the eyes burning ! 
Children lacking bread ! 
AVife sadly mourning ! 

CHORUS. 

Round the banner, Guildsmen, rally ! 

Dearly, oh ! Dearly, oh ! 
Dearly, dearly, dearly, oh ! 

Dearly, oh ! Dearly, oh ! 

' This song and the following were adopted by St. Mary's 
Temperance Guild, to sing at the opening and closing of their 
meetings. 



PARTING OF THE GUILD. 121 

Loud be the song of the Guild as we gather ! 

Cheerily, oh ! Cheerily, oh ! 
Long may we crowd about our banner ! 
Merrily, oh ! Merrily, oh ! 
Praise to God on high ! 

Love to our neighbor ! 
Angels guard our homes ! 
Heaven bless our labor ! 

CHORUS. 

Round the banner, Guildsmen, rally ! 

Merrily, oh ! Merrily, oh ! 
Merrily, merrily, merrily, oh ! 

Merrily, oh ! Merrily, oh ! 



PARTING OF THE GUILD. 

I. 
Brothers, now before we part. 

Let our voices chime, 
And the beat of each true heart 

Measure true our time. 
Meeting is a joy to all ; 

Parting is a pain. 
Who can tell what may befall 

Ere we meet again ? 

II. 
Ever binding, ever blest 

Be our common vow ! 
Joy to every loving breast 

Gathered with us now ! 
Health to absent friends as well ; 

Gladness in their homes ! 
Peace to dear and dead, who dwell 

Where no sorrow comes I 



122 A GRADUAL PSALM. 

III. 

Holy Father, Holy Son, 

Holy Spirit, hail ! 
Threefold power whose single throne 

Lies beyond the veil ! 
As upon our knees we fall, 

Bending meek and low. 
Kindly look upon us all ! 

Bless us ere we go ! 



A GRADUAL PSALM. 

Glad was I when they said to me : 
" Come to the house of God ! " 
O dearly do I love the road ; 
With joy I count each glad degree 
By which I mount to Thy abode, 
O Lord, my God, 
To Thy abode, and Thee ! 

My feet shall stand within thy streets, 

Jerusalem ! 

And when, with harp and solemn hymn, 

They mount unto thy temple gates. 

My feet shall march with them. 

Thither the tribes go up, and throng 

The sacred court. 

Thither the vested priests resort, 

The Levites raise inspired song ; 

And sentry hills on guard around, 

O Sion ! catch the sound ; 

And, from their hollow grots, 

Deep loving throats. 

Send back the notes 

To die away on holy ground. 



THE DAILY HOURS. 123 

Hail ! holy altar, judgment-seat, 

High throne of mercy and of law ! 

Knowing that God is great, 

I bow to thee with awe. 

Yet all the while I feel, 

As reverently I kneel 

To kiss thy feet, 

That the whole air 

I breathe when there 

Is sweet, surpassing sweet. 

Sweetest to me Thy temple. Lord, 

When all is still ; 

When not a sound is heard, 

No tinkling altar-bell. 

No song, no spoken word ; 

When the stillness is unstirred 

By any step, 

Or the motion of a lip ; 

Then, all alone, in quiet partnership. 

My heart and I commune ; 

And both, in tune 

With the deep silence there. 

Sing words that are not spoken, 

In tones that leave no token 

In the air ; 

Yet every word is a silence broken, 

And every note a prayer. 



THE DAILY HOURS. 

Matutina ligat Christum qui crimina solvit. 
Prima replet sputis. Causam dat tertia mortis. 
Sexta Cruci nectit. Latus ejus nona bipertit. 
Vespera deponit. Tumulo Completa repon it. 



124 ^^^^ PRIESTLY ROBE. 

The hour of matins finds our Lord in chains. 
At PRIME they spit upon His face. At tierce 
We hear His doom of death. Sad sext complains 
Before the Cross. At none His side they pierce. 
At VESPERS they take down His dear remains ; 
While COMPLINE watches by His tomb in tears. 
Watch thou, my heart, until thy Lord appears. 

[In the foregoing lines only the English translation is new. 
Lauds have here no special mention. They are said or sung, 
even in the Communities of Religious, at the same hour as 
the Matins, and practically included in that office.] 



THE PRIESTLY ROBE. 



Touch it lightly, or not at all. 

Let it not fall I 

Let not a fabric so august 

Trail in the dust ! 

'T is a costly thing. 

Woven by love in suffering. 

'T was Jesus' parting gift to men. 

When the Lord rose to heaven again, 

His latest breathing fell on it, 

And left a sacred spell on it. 

A mystery hides within its folds. 

Quickened by sacramental breath, 

It holds 

The power of life and death. 

Would you sully it ? Would you rend it ? 

Is there a Christian would not defend it— 

A robe so costly, and so rare. 

So wonderfully fair ? 

Woe to the hand profane,. 



THE PRIESTL V ROBE. 1 25 

Woe to the heart ungracious, 
Woe to the tongue unheeding, 
Would dare to cast a stain 
On a vestment made so precious 
By such costly bleeding ! 

II. 

I know this robe and its history, 

And what strange virtue goeth forth 

From its hem to bless the earth ; 

And I adore the mystery 

That gives it grace, 

In Jesus' name, to soothe and heal. 

With more than human tenderness 

I prize the priestly order ; 

And, while with reverent knee I kneel, 

I do not see beneath the border 

Frail feet of clay. 

But seek to find, if so I may, 

By feeling, 

Some gracious thread which will convey 

To my sore spirit healing. 

Vicars of Christ ! Deem me not rude, 

If nearer than is wont I press me ; 

But turn, and bless me 

Amid the kneeling multitude. 



MEDITATIONS IN VERSE. 



127 



MEDITATIONS IN VERSE. 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE. 



O Scientists and Sages ! Ye have read 

Unnumbered volumes through, 

And knowledge hides his head 

With you. 

Deep-pondering, and far-seeing, 

Ye know the mystery of this being, 

Its origin and end. 

Tell me, then, what I am ; 

Tell me from whence I came ; 

Tell me whereto I tend ; 

Yea, why I am at all. 

In vain I call. 

From Scientist, or Seer, 

No answer cometh to my ear. 

Why ask of them that cannot give ? 

Why call for light 

To them that grope in deeper night ? 

In God I live. 

Draw breath, have sense and motion. 
From God I came ; to God must I return, 
129 



130 THE PROBLEM OF LIFE. 

As the rain, ocean-born, 

Returneth to the bosom of the ocean. 

I am all His, and His alone. 

No other maker names me ; 

No other master claims me ; 

Nay, I am not my own. 

Lord of my life and destiny, 

I do confess, my God, in Thee 

Full sovereignty and absolute domain. 

II. 

Why was I made ? God had no need of me. 

I was not necessary, had no claim to be. 

Without consulting me, or mine. 

But of His royal pleasure. 

And as the by-plan of a vast design, 

Including me and my scant measure. 

From a deep mould 

As infinitely old 

As His own mighty mind He brought me, 

And into being wrought me. 

A delicate complexity 

Of spirit and machinery, 

Of matter, force, and faculty, 

A frail and feeble creature, 

But with a destiny above my nature, 

He designed me, 

And assigned me 

To a station, service, and vocation 

In the great feodary of His creation. 

There, to my post and duty tied, 
Let me abide, 
Calm and content ; 
Indifferent 



THE ONE THING NEEDFUL. 131 

Whatever may befall me ; 

Ready to stay and labor on 

Until my work be done ; 

Ready to go when God shall call me. 

He that made me and my destiny 

Is wise and true ; 

Full well He knows His royal due, 

And what is best for me. 

Oh ! what should be the end of man 

But simply to fulfil 

That holy will 

In which man's being first began ? 

My end, the reason of my being, yea 

My soul's true bliss, — 

All lies in this : 

To live for Thee, my God, only for Thee. 



THE ONE THING NEEDFUL. 

Oh ! how crazy, greedy, busy. 

Giddy, dizzy 

Is this world that we live in ! 

Getting money, spending money, 

Borrowing and lending money. 

Coining money out of sin. 

Heaping treasure, seeking pleasure, 

Seeking honor, without even 

One brief hour of quiet leisure 

For the daily thought of heaven. 

Or the voice within. 

Drowning thought in peals of laughter ; 

Thinking naught of an hereafter 

Stretching far beyond the tomb, 

Whose dread portal 



132 OMNIA AD DEI GLORIAM. 

To each mortal 

Is the gate of final doom. 

Oh ! there is but one thing needful ! 

'T is to reach the goal. 

Oh ! there is but one thing dreadful ! 

'T is to lose the soul, — 

Loss beyond all computation, 

Loss beyond repair ; 

Deep privation, desolation, aggravation, 

Culmination of despair ! 

Let my life be short, or long. 
Though it last but till to-morrow ; 
Feeble be my steps, or strong, 
Full of joy or full of sorrow ; 
Send me honor, send me shame — 
It is all the same. 
Give me wealth, or let me beg 
Bread upon a cripple's leg. 
Limping slow from door to door ; — 
Save my soul ! I ask no more. 



OMNIA AD DEI GLORIAM. 



O God ! this world is fair ; 
And wonderful the tale it tells 
Of Him that made the earth, the air, 
The valleys, and the hills, 
And the hoarse, surging sea. 
Lord, — 't is the ancient story — 
Thou madest all these for Thy glory. 
For Thy glory man was made to be ; 
And I — I hold my life of Thee, 



OMNIA AD DEI GLORIA M. 1 33 

By service feudatory, 

But not in simple fee ; 

My Lord's true tenant 

Am I, bound to his pennant, 

And to do homage feal on bended knee. 

Into this world I came 

To glorify Thy name. 

If then, amidst the sound 

Of this great hymn which breathes around, 

And fills the earth and sky, 

I fail to raise my song on high 

To my Creator's praise ; 

If my unthankful voice is still ; 

O ! if I miss to guide my ways 

By Thy most holy will ; 

If here I fail, I fail to my undoing ; 

Abortion of a noble plan, 

Distortion of a shapely man, 

Naught am I but a living ruin. 

Woe then is me ! 

Wrecked shall I float, and drift a-lee. 

Far from staunch ship, or saving shore ; 

Far from my God, and from my destiny ; 

Adrift, lost, tempest-tost forevermore ! 

II. 

All creatures speak of God. The story 

Is everywhere the same. 

All nature glitters with His glory, 

And vibrates to His name, 

And what have I to say ? 

What tale have I to tell ? 

Am I dumb, in a crowd 

That speak so loud. 



134 OMNIA AD DEI GLORIAM. 

And so well ? 

Am I less wise than they ? 

I should be a mirror, pure and bright, 

To reflect my Maker's face, 

That all who look at me may trace 

His form at second sight. 

But I am like a shattered glass. 

With many facets, and no true face ; 

And they that pass 

•Can only trace. 

In the rays returning from my soul, 

The broken and distorted features 

Of frail and worthless creatures. 

But naught of the perfect Whole. 

Doing slight duty, 

Weaving no beauty. 

Speaking no truth, 

False to the promise of my youth, 

False to the hand from which 1 spring. 

Seeking, not God's glory, but my own, 

(Yet, save in Him, with claim to none) 

Outlawed, and wandering, 

A work am I by Him begun. 

But never done. 

Fabric of grace, had I been built, — 

Lorn monument of guilt. 

Shall I ever reach my end ? 

Lord, help me to amend ; 

Send my poor soul relief ; 

To wash my sins, tears of true grief ; 

Grace to begin my life anew ; 

And so my way by grace pursue. 

That the glory of Thy life divine 

May henceforth be, 

In some degree. 

Reflected back in mine. 



THE SALVATION OF THE SOUL. 1 35 



THE SALVATION OF THE SOUL. 



My salvation is a thought 

That 's wondrous old. 

Ere the great world was wrought, 

Or lay rough in its early mould, 

Love fashioned a sky of cloudless blue 

For me in the heart of God. 

To this is my being due. 

Christ, for this cause, came down and trod 

This woe-worn soil, 

A weary while ; 

Holy Angels come and go 

Back and forth, 

To and fro. 

Never far, though all unseen, 

From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth, 

Cleaving swift the screen 

Of spaceless, bodiless air 

That lies between, 

Busy in this great affair. 

All the wide world through, — 

High Paradise, and deep Hell too, — 

My soul's salvation 

Is in litigation. 

Oh ! in this business have I naught to do ? 

II. 

Of good and evil a tangled tissue 

My life drags on ; and doubtful is the issue. 

Shall I be saved ? I do not know. 

Shall I be lost ? I cannot tell. 



136 THE INSUFFICIENCY OF CREA TURES. 

But this I know full well, — 

That neither friend nor foe, 

With all their power to help, or kill, 

The grace in me, 

Can change the current of my destiny 

Without my will. 

Winged Angels, radiant Saints, 

Listed with Christ their Prince, 

And fighting in my cause, I see ; 

And the Holy Spirit, blent 

With each kindly sacrament. 

Breathes His sweet breath on me. 

But my salvation still 

To the tenure of my will 

Is given. 

On that one strand hangs all my heaven. 



THE INSUFFICIENCY OF CREATURES. 



Far have I looked, long waited, 

Yet have I never found 

In any thing created 

A true and solid rest. 

Above the ground, 

If such thincf be, 

And cometh betimes to human breast, 

It cometh not to me. 

Vain are all creatures, and unstable. 

False, insufficient, and unable 

To satisfy a heart like mine. 

They were made for me, not I for them. 

I was created for things divine — 



THE INSUFFICIENCY OF CREA TURES. 1 37 

For God ; and with a higher aim 

Than aught mine eyes can see. 

For I am too noble, and free, 

To house my heart in clay. 

These are my servants, and must obey, 

They are my means, and not my end ; 

And the great arc of my destiny 

They are too little to subtend. 

My heart indeed they occupy, 

But cannot satisfy ; 

For that is of so great a measure 

That no fortune, love, or the largest pleasure, 

If less than the boundless infinite. 

Can ever assuage its appetite. 

Vain creatures, leave my breast ! 

Ye are too small to fill it all ; 

It must be full, or find no rest. 

II. 

My heart is like a river 

Which, ever and ever, 

Presseth onward to deliver 

The burden of its being to the main ; 

But many a fountain-head, 

And many a water-shed 

Fill up its weary bed 

With gatherings of the rain. 

So ever begins its race of pain. 

Where it flieth, there it dwelleth ; 

Emptieth itself, and swelleth ; 

Ever disgusted with its gains, 

It taketh always new increase 

From streams that cannot give it peace. 

My heart is like a fire 
Which higher, ever higher, 



138 BOCHIM. 

Leapeth upward with desire 

To ascend to its sphere ; 

But never it recedeth 

From the fagots where it feedeth, 

And which hold its ever fluttering spirit here. 

So my poor spirit cherisheth, 

And weakly clings 

To the frivolous things 

By which she perisheth ; 

And yet, inconstant in her mood, 

Looks upward to the highest good. 

God ! break up this strange division. 
This indecision. 

Lift my weak soul above 

All earthly love ; 

That upward looking to Thy throne. 

Oh, my best hope, and only one, 

1 may love Thee alone ! 



BOCHIM.' 

A MEDITATION FOR LENT. 
Judges, ii., 1-6. 



God's angel came to Ha-Bochim. 

The tribes of Israel were met 

By Silo's silent rivulet. 

Bright rose the sun o'er Jordan's stream 

And, looking west, 

^ The Hebrew words in these verses are pronounced as fol- 
lows : Bokeem, or Ha-Bocheem ; Eloheem ; Seelo ; Geliloth 
requires a hard G, as in Galgal. It is used in Jos. xviii., 18, as 
another name for that place. See Calmet Diet. 



BOCHIM. 139 

Fell in a shower of sparkling light 
On the high-priest's jewelled breast, 
And made each warrior's corslet gleam ; 
And the holy hill shine bright 
As an infant's dream. 

God's Angel came from Geliloth. 

In fury he came, 

He withered the grass on his path 

Like a flame ; 

And the air that shrunk from before his wrath 

Grew into a storm ere he came ; 

And the Hebrew crowd grew pale 

At the burning words of Uriel. 

'' I come from Geliloth. 

I come from the spot, sacred and blest, 

Where long the ark of God found rest. 

I come from the place of plighted troth, 

Where ye made your covenant with Heaven, 

And my promises were given. 

Confirmed by solemn oath. 

Ye swore to let no idol stand 

In the Holy Land. 

I swore, by my own name, 

To scatter your foes before your face 

With fire and flame. 

I come from the holy place ; 

And there — yea, there 

The idols of Moab are standing now. 

And the worshippers of Baal bow. 

Polluting the sweet air. 

And now again I swear 

To let you enemies remain 

To be your plague and your bane. 

The land shall be to you unblest, 



I40 BOCHIM, 

And ye shall find no rest 

Therein from peril and pain. 

Bide here with your idols and your foes 

Ye shall have no repose 

Until ye turn to me again." 

Herein methinks that I can see 

My past career. Like an open scroll 

Dark histories before me roll. 

My buried sins come back to me. 

Before me in my path, 

Majestic in his wrath, 

My Angel towers like a flame, 

Calls me by my baptismal name, 

Recounts the many mercies given. 

The vows I registered in heaven. 

Points to the idols that still are found 

In my soul, like Bel, or Ashtaroth, 

In their groves upon the holy ground 

Of consecrated Geliloth. 

Ah ! greed, and sense, and pride ! 

Woe to me if I break them not ! 

Woe ! if the curse forsake me not 

Ere the angel leaves my side ! 



Why wail ye so, ye vested priests, 

On the bosom of Bochim ? 

Why do the women strike their breasts, 

And call on Elohim ? 

Why do the warriors bow their crests 

O'er Silo's silent stream ? 

Why does the sickle lie idle 

That should cut the golden grain ? 

Why do the steeds rush over the plain 



BOCHIM. 141 

With loosened bridle ? 

And why are the hill-sides about the stream 

Named Ha-Bochim ? 

The priests wail for the sins of the past ; 

They wail for fear ; 

They wail that the angel of God is near ; 

They wail in terror of the blast ; 

The women strike their breasts, 

And call on Elohim ; 

And the warriors bow their crests 

O'er Silo's stream ; 

And the steeds have broken from their keepers ; 

And the panic-stricken reapers 

Are gathered in Bochim, 

Because of the angel of wrath that came 

With storm, and fire, and flame 

To break the dream 

Of these sinful sleepers ; 

And the meaning of the name 

Bochim is — "The place of the weepers." 

Dread Angel ! stand thou by my side ! 

Question this heart of sin and pride ! 

Bring hither my idols now ! 

Bring hither every broken vow ! 

And let my soul by herself be tried 

In her secret home. 

Before the door shall be opened wide. 

And the greater trial come. 

I stand beside the silent stream ; 

This Lent shall be my Ha-Bochim, 

And shame, and sorrow, and vigil keeping 

Shall sanctify my "place of weeping." 



142 ASH WEDNESDAY. 



ASH WEDNESDAY. 



" Remember, man, that thou art dust." 

Bow low, proud head, bow low ; 

Receive the ashes on thy brow. 

Bend down, proud heart, for bend thou must ; 

Bend down, and know 

How little room thou hast for pride. 

The meanest beggar by thy side 

Is made, like thee, of mire. 

Didst think thyself a little higher ? 

Is there something in thy pedigree ? 

Hast thou a family tree ? 

Did God choose richer mud, 

And from its juice distil thy blood ? 

Art beautiful ? bethink thee. What 

Will keep thy beauty from the rot ? 

Betrothed to foul caressing worms. 

Where wilt thou treasure up thy charms ? 

Art strong ? To the altar, with a stride, 

And push that weaker clay aside. 

Yet, kneeling think how thou shalt crumble. 

And try, one moment, to be humble. 

Hast money ? Oh ! then, open purse 

To bribe the old primeval curse ; 

And if it will not stay thy doom, 

Buy for thy dust at least a tomb. 

Art office-holder ? Issue writ. 

Perhaps it will arrest the vermin ; 

Teach them to respect thine ermine, 

And let thee mildew slow in it. 

Thy robe becomes thee, lady. So ? 

Ah ! sweeter far it is, and prouder, 



ASH WEDNESDAY. I43 

Thus to dissolve to costly powder, 

Than to rot in calico ! 

Perhaps thou hast a deeper pride ; 

Deeming thyself a child of grace, 

Thou pityest these who take their place, 

All sinful, by thy side. 

O God, in mercy hasten to me ; 

Humble my pride ; subdue me, 

And this one truth into my bosom burn : 

That, made of dust, to dust I shall return. 



II. 

Lord ! I am dust. And yet, 

This frame, so frail, is not the whole. 

I have a soul. 

Into a nobler fabric knit 

Than could be made of clay ; 

A self which never can decay. 

It is not earth, and cannot rot ; 

Though it can sin, as earth cannot. 

Oh ! it can be a meaner slave ; 

And it can fill a deeper grave. 

I bring to-day a deeper shame 

Than simple flesh can claim. 

Made to a heavenly mould. 

Heir to a wealth untold. 

Bondsman am I to dust. 

Therefore I may, and must 

Bow down to-day, while Thou dost spread 

The ashes on my shameful head. 

Lord, Thou canst humble, and Thou canst bless ! 

Look down on my distress ; 

And through this day's humiliation, 

Guide my sick soul to its salvation. 



144 LIFE BREAD. 

LIFE BREAD. 

[a meditation for lent.] 



I seek some sure resource ; something 

Behind my life, or underneath, 

Deeper than blood or breath ; 

Some stay, or staff, some store, or spring, 

That doth my being underlie. 

And power to live supply. 

What is it, and whose to give ? 

Let me know, for death I dread. 

Is it bread ? 

Let me know, for I would live, 

And not die in the desert here. 

Tell me, some one ! 

Cometh a voice to my ear ; 

Cometh a voice solemn and clear : 

" Man doth not live by bread alone." 

Man doth not live by bread alone ! 

Lord, whereby liveth he ? 

Tell me the mystery, 

If the mystery may be known. 

" Life hangeth on My breath. 

Man liveth by My will. 

I am the reason of life, and death ; 

I am life's Lord. 

I gave man life, and he liveth still 

By the power of My word. 

I give and I take, 

I make and unmake. 

Wouldst thou live long ? 



LIFE BREAD. 1 45 

Look for thy living to the strong. 

What the Tempter says in thine ear, 

Albeit inopportune, is true : 

I could thy life renew 

In this desert here, 

By making bread of the senseless stone ; 

Or I can leave thee hungry and fasting, 

Yet make thy living everlasting. 

Man doth not live by bread alone." 



II. 

Man liveth not by bread alone. 

This animal strife, 

Brief struggle for breath, which men call life, 

Begun by a moan 

In the midwife's ear 

And a tear, — 

Signals of misery soon made. 

Soon smothered by a spade ; — 

This little span 

From youth to age, 

Quick clatter over a bridge. 

Can never measure man. 

No thought can trace, 

No fancy space. 

That world of being beyond the skies 

Where true life lies. 

What 's bread to him that needs not ? 

What 's food to him that feeds not ? 

What 's living where no breath is ? 

What 's dying where no death is ? 

Give me a breath 

Can keep away the second death ! 

Give me a bread 

Will hold life in the living dead ! 



146 ONE BY ONE. 

O come, deep silence ! Ah ! let me hear 
That living and life-giving word, 
Which only can be heard 
In solitude, by the loving ear. 
Eternal truth, be thou to me 
Bread, breath, pulse, seeing, sound ! 
All that I need of life is found 
In Thee, my God, in Thee. 



ONE BY ONE. 



We live like sheep, in crowds ; but die 

One by one. 

Little cares death for family. 

Or circles of society. 

Extensive kith, or courtly tone. 

Heedless of every social tie, 

He summons us to die 

Alone. 

Good seems it to be in company, 

And not alone. 

Companions lend security ; 

They seem our lives to justify, 

Our consciences to fortify. 

Alas ; they help us not to die. 

No ; one by one, 

Through the dark door we pass ; and I 

Must die alone. 

Ah ! must I die alone ? 
Must I go single through that iron door. 
Where all that pass return no more ; 
Where all that I have seen, and known. 



ONE BY ONE. 1 4/ 

And loved in nature, to me dies ; 

Forever shut my eyes 

To all the natural doth prize ? 

Must I draw nigh 

The Judge upon His throne 

All unsupported, and alone, 

And meet His awful eye ? 

How will the naked truth appear. 

With only God to hear ? 

II. 

We live in crowds ; and, living so, 

Like fools, we gage 

Our after-life of weal, or woe, 

Upon the moral average. 

Say I : " We are all brothers. 

God will not damn 

Such as I am. 

At cost of damning all these others." 

O fairy scheme ! 

airy dream ! 

This is the Devil's broadway. 

The way to Heaven is another roadway. 

We go to judgment one by one. 

Each baring his breast 

To the great inquest. 

Measured by law alone. 

Except I show true penance done ; 

A stern resolve, with heart's deep pain, 

Never to sin again. 

And true fruit growing thereupon ; — 

My cause is gone. 

No crowd can aught avail me. 

My fellows will all fail me. 

1 shall be judged alone. 



148 SOLITUDE AND SILENCE. 

SOLITUDE AND SILENCE. 

[from THOMAS A KEMPIS.] 



The more I see of men, the less a man am I. 
'T is only in the night that we can see the sky. 
'T is only when the earth is hid that heaven comes 
nigh. 

This lesson have I found all my life through ; 
The more I learned of men, the less I knew ; 
For, by false lights, they darken the beautiful and 
true. 

We hear too much of a science that is not so. 

We see too many sights that are mere show. 

By the closing of our eyes and ears, wiser we grow. 

Wouldst know the rule to find the only true and 

good ? 
Go shut thy closet door ; let none intrude. 
God teaches the still heart in solitude. 



II. 

The silence of the cell is full of holy thought. 

Angels come visiting when men go out. 

To souls that stay at home they come unsought. 

There solemn voices speak that only speak by 

night. 
There truths distorted and confused are seen aright, 
And the words of Holy Scripture gleam with gol- 
den light. 



THE FOLLOWING OF CHRIST. 1 49 

Then lessons come from lips that speak no more ; 
And holy aspirations, such as moved us heretofore ; 
And tears spring to our eyes for sins that we de- 
plore ; 

And a sweet voice whispers, '' Peace," a voice we 

know ; 
And melodies stir in the soul, solemn and low ; 
And the cell seems full of Heaven that was lone a 

moment ago. 



THE FOLLOWING OF CHRIST. 

[from THOMAS A KEMPIS.] 



" Who follows Me walks not in the night." 

These are the Master's words. Take heed. 

And learn to read 

Their meaning right. 

Wouldst be Christ's follower indeed ; 

From blindness of the heart be freed ? 

Then let His life be thy life's light. 

Do as He did. Work as He wrought. 

Teach as He taught. Think as He thought. 

Seek earnestly and solely what He sought. 

As true disciple of His school, 

Conform in all things to His rule. 

Let the spirit of thy Master enter, 

And possess thee, 

And repress thee, and redress thee 

To thy soul's centre ; 

And so transform thee from the thing thou art, 

To be His likeness and true counterpart. 



150 YESTERDAY. 



II. 



What will it profit thee to know 

All that is written of divinity ? 

What gain will come to thee, if thou couldst show 

The depths which underlie the Trinity ? 

If thou art not yet humble, friend, 

Thou art still far from God ; 

Thou hast lost time upon the road ; 

This wisdom will not help thee in the end. 

O folly of vain desire ! 

What wilt thou gather from thy learning, 

When thou thyself art burning, 

Belettered and belittered in hell fire ? 

O folly ! folly ! every thought is folly 

Save this alone, — 

To follow Jesus wholly. 

And in His life to lose thine own. 



YESTERDAY. 



What is this we call yesterday ? 

A ripple mark in the sand ; 

And the next wave that floods the strand 

Washes it all away. 

A child breathes on the window glass. 

And writes his name on the frost ; 

So light a record is yesterday. 

And so quickly is it lost. 

We name it when no longer here ; 

We name it when not ours. 

We crown it with fond flowers. 

And christen it, on its bier. 



YESTERDAY. 151 

Alas ! alas ! for yesterday ! 

When I laid me down to rest, 

It lay folded to my breast ; 

But in my sleep it stole away. 

Ah ! is it so soon gone, 

With its perils, its immunities. 

And such golden opportunities 

To do good deeds, not done ? 

Where are they now ? Oh ! where 

Those secret inspirations. 

Those gentle, gracious invitations, 

To walk with God in prayer ? \ 

Will they not return to-day ? 

Are they gone, and gone forever ? 

Will no petition, no endeavor, 

Redeem what I lost yesterday ? 



II. 

Has yesterday gone, gone quite ? 

Is it nothing now but a date ? 

Has it sunk with all its freight, 

Like a ship, out of sight ? 

Has it left no record of my errors ? 

And, if now perchance I walk upright, 

Will it therefore not return to fright 

My soul with terrors. 

In spite of her placid boasts ? 

Has the petty goodness of to-day 

Blotted all of yesterday's sins away ? 

See ! see them coming back like ghosts, 

With all their murdered hours ! — these days, 

The yesterday, and the yesterday before, 

And so many, many more ! 

See them behind each other gaze. 

With my sins glistening in their eyes ! 



152 TO-DAY. 

Gan that which Heaven and I have seen 
Be ever as though it had not been ? 
Ah ! memory sleeps, but never dies. 



TO-DAY. 



In the long calendar of years 

One little point of time appears, 

One point alone 

Which I can call my own, — 

To-day. 

Alas ! I can but claim it. 

Scarce time have I to name it. 

When, like a dream, it floats away. 

Sure, this is my house, and this my land ! 

I have the title deeds at hand ; — 

Meadow, and orchard, and garden spot. 

So many acres to the lot 

By the map of survey. 

Alas ! alas ! there 's a flaw in my deed. 

My title is only guaranteed 

For to-day. 

God's truth ! my tenure is very poor ; 

My freehold a foothold, and no more. 

To-morrow I may be clay, 

And the land which now I hold in fee 

Become freeholder, and hold me. 

God ! teach me this lesson, I pray ; 
How quickly life doth pass away. 
Freighted with hopes as heaven high, 
And boundless as the boundless sky, 
'T is but a day. 



TO-MORRO W. 153 

A body lewd, and a spirit proud ; 
A clay-cold form in a white shroud. 
So endeth many a play. 

II. 

To-day the grass grows bright and green, 

Its banners waving gay. 

To-morrow the reaper walks between 

The rows of hay. 

So gay and bright the life we lead ; 

So speeds that life away ; 

And to-morrow gathers in her dead, 

Where all is bloom to-day. 

To-day the voice of mercy calls : 

" Come away ! " 

Solemn and sweet on the ear it falls. 

Obey ! obey ! 

To-morrow morning may give no warning 

So kind as this to-day. 

O hasten ! see to your soul's adorning 

While still you may. 



TO-MORROW. 

I. 

To-morrow advances apace, apace. 

Beware ! 

Her step is grand, and full of grace. 

Take care ! 

Oh ! many and cruel are her wiles ; 

There 's falsehood in her dimpling smiles ; 

And souls to ruin she beguiles 

By the ringlets of her hair. 

She walks behind a hollow mask. 

Beware ! 



1 54 TO-MORRO IV. 

She will promise all you choose to ask. 

Take care ! 

» 

Soft whispers glide from her honeyed tongue, 
As sweet as the notes of that Siren song 
Which lured the mariner along 
To shipwreck and despair. 

She comes with nosegay of tender flowers. 

Beware ! 

They are made of the dreams of wasted hours. 

Take care 

Her gardens are strewn with buds half blown, 

Resolves to no perfection grown, 

Unheeded graces, duties undone, 

Lip-lifting without prayer. 

Leave not till to-morrow thy purpose weak. 

Beware ! 

All life that is earnest and real breathes quick. 

Take care ! 

To-day is a live and life-giving tree ; 

But what is to-morrow, my soul, to thee 

But a dream, and a snare ? 

II. 

Shall we have sunshine or rain to-morrow ? 

Ask not. 

Is there promise of peace or pain to-morrow ? 

Fear not, 

God watches in all weathers. Pray, 

And do thy duty well to-day. 

Say ! will to-morrow bring raiment and bread ? 
Ask not. 

Ask the young ravens how they are fed. 
Fear not. 



LOST AND FOUND. I 55 

Look at the lilies how they are arrayed ! 
Thou hast less reason to be afraid. 

Does life grievous and tedious seem ? 

Fret not. 

'T is at best but a toss through a troubled dream. 

Faint not. 

Sufficient grace for to-day is given ; 

To-morrow is one day nearer Heaven. 



LOST AND FOUND. 



Forth from the garden gate they fly ; 
Upward their aimless arms are tossed 

In wild despair. 

Ah ! guilty pair ! 
It is decreed that ye shall die. 
No wonder that your only cry 

Is '' Lost ! lost ! lost ! " 

'T is not the thought of breath, 
The body yielding up its ghost, 

Fills them with fear ; 

But in their ear 
Rings out in tones of awful wrath 
The sentence of the second death, — 

Lost ! lost ! lost ! lost ! 

Lost to the hope of paradise ; 

Lost to all that which counts for most 

The vision flown ; 

The birthright gone ; 
The soul's best, highest, dearest prize, 
To see God with unclouded eyes, 

Is lost, all lost. 



156 THE WEDDING GARMENT. 



Yet, lo ! a rainbow born of tears ! 
And, sprinkled with its diamond dust, 

In the wilderness 

An oasis, 
A grassy hill of green appears, 
Whereon a tree broad arms uprears, 

To save the lost ! 

What lavish love for mercy's sake ! 
The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost 

Combine to give 

A new reprieve. 
Another plank, a second deck. 
To save the soul after shipwreck, 

From being lost. 

Oh ! when I think of this new hope ! 

Oh ! when I think how much it cost- 
That blood-stained road ! 
That murdered God ! 

Not I such flow of grace will stop, 

Nor waste of blood so dear one drop. 
I '11 not be lost. 



THE WEDDING 'GARMENT. 

Matt, xxii., 11. 

I. 

The chandeliers glow bright 
In the marriage hall. 
Floor, wainscoting, and wall 
Are surfeited with light. 



THE WEDDING GARMENT. 1 5/ 

Loud music fills the air. 

A thousand feet 

Are gathered there, 

All waiting joyously to greet 

The royal Bridegroom and His Bride. 

She stands by His side 

In blissful innocency, pure, and good, 

With a maiden's bashful blood. 

But a matron's pride. 

All richly dight 

In virgin white. 

The Bridesmaids cluster round their Queen. 

Bending like turf beneath their tread, 

The carpet shows so bright and clean 

In every thread 

Of brown, or green, or gold, or red. 

It seems new woven, and just laid. 

From the noblest to the last and least 

That gather there, each guest 

Is robed in his costliest and best. 

And ready for the feast. 

But hold ! Say, who is this 

That enters without a wedding dress ? 

What rude unmannerly clown 

Comes thus unseemly in 

From the dust and dirt of the town. 

Dishonoring all the rest. 

But bringing chiefly shame and chagrin 

To the Lord of the feast ? 

Quick ! Open the door ! 

Chase the varlet out from sight ! 

Chase him forth into the night 

Where he was before ! 

Chase him out from the light ! 

Forgotten be his name ; 



158 THE WEDDING GARMENT. 



And his doom 

Be shame on shame, 

And gloom on gloom 



II. 

Who art thou that goest, so meekly bent 

And yet so confident, 

To the table of the Lord ? 

Needs must this Sacrament 

Be by all men adored ; 

But only the pure in heart 

May take their part 

In this dear food, 

Feed on this Flesh, and drink this Blood. 

Tell me, my son, 

Hast thou thy wedding garment on ? 

Say ! hast thou bathed in that crystal flood 

Where sin is washed away ? 

Hast thou bethought thyself to pray 

For clearer sight 

To see thy sins aright ? 

Hast thou reviewed the laws of God 

In simple verity ; 

Measured thy conscience by that code 

In sad sincerity ? 

Hast thou retraced the by-gone years. 

And watered the way with tears ? 

Is all repented and confessed ? 

Hast thou left nothing unredressed ? 

Is every sin forsaken ? 

Is every needful resolution taken ? 

Then go, thou happy penitent, in peace ! 
About thee fold thy wedding dress ; 
And pray that" He who gives this grace 
May give each day increase. 



A CRY FOR A HOME. 1 59 



A CRY FOR A HOME. 



My heart cries out for home ; 
Nowhere can I find ease. 
Times of repose to others come ; 
Birds have a cottage in the trees, 
Or some sure homestead in the sand ; 
The gull returns to rest on the land. 
Where is my home ? 

What ! Pilgrim, callest thou for home ? 

Life has no place for rest ; 

'T is but a wayside inn at best. 

Have patience till the Master come. 

Keep thy lamp trimmed, and burning bright, 

And wait for the happy nuptial night. 

Heaven is thy home. 



If Heaven is my home, 

I would fain be there now. 

I am not fit to dig and plough ; 

Labor is hard and wearisome. 

For those that worn and weary are, 

Heaven is all too far. 

Come quickly, O sweet home ! 

Ah ! sluggard, cease thy talk of home. 

Look ! see it standing near 

With all the faithful heart holds dear. 



l6o TRUSTFUL AND SIMPLE PRAYER. 

What is 't thou flyest from ? 
Home is where thy Avork is given. 
Where love and duty lie is Heaven. 
God is thy home. 



TRUSTFUL AND SIMPLE PRAYER. 



Happy for us that for Himself God made us, 
Since to His own an owner's love He oweth. 
Happy for us that His own work He knoweth. 
So made and marked, His care is pledged to aid us. 

He knoweth every hap ere it befalls us ; 
Foresees the failures wherefrom grows our need. 
He gave the very voice wherewith we plead ; 
Yea, to the blessings which we call for calls us. 

No praying ever takes Him by surprise. 
He sees us comimg while we hesitate. 
Our knocking finds Him waiting at the gate ; 
His smile is ready ere we raise our eyes. 

Love made us. Has not love the right of rule ? 
Kneel to Him loyally ; He claims your fealty. 
Freely confess to Him ; He knows your frailty. 
Ask boldly, for his hands are always full. 



Go straight to God. He can do every thing. 
His holy hands are gauntleted with power. 
High Heaven is garrisoned at every tower 
With eager angels fluttering on the wing. 



I 



THE KING OF HEARTS. l6l 

The ministers and messengers of love are they. 
Why should we hesitate, and be afraid 
To go, and go, and go, and go again ? 
Is any thing more simple than to pray ? 

Pray softly. God is always very near us ; 
No need to deafen Heaven with cry and shout. 
Knock confidently ; He is never out ; 
Never so busy that He cannot hear us. 

Pray simply. Use no verbiage, no art. 
All forms of speech alike to Him are known. 
To Him the sweetest language is our own. 
God loves the simple grammar of the heart. 



THE KING OF HEARTS. 

I. 

Oh ! who can govern the human heart. 

Its thoughts divine, its throbs restrain ? 

It is a realm that stands apart. 

Lone and sequestered ; a domain 

Belted by no coast, or border. 

Fended by no wall, or warder ; 

Yet into that trackless inland state 

No foot of man can penetrate. 

There God commands. 

And His wall it is, and joy. 

To hold the helm in His own hands 

Without either Vicar or Viceroy. 

Wise Master in His art of arts, 

He sits alone upon His throne, 

The King of Hearts. 

Oh ! the heart is fickle and full of pride, 
Hard to rule, and harder to guide. 



1 62 THE KING OF HEARTS. 

God loves withal the wayward creature. 

To Him it is more truly dear, 

The object of more tender care 

Than the whole realm of outer nature, 

Or all the civil rule of nations. 

Oh ! can it be, 

My heart, that God thus deals with thee ; 

And thou, in thy pulsations, 

So proudly calm, so strangely cool, 

Unconscious of His royal rule ! 

II. 

Always restless and unquiet. 
What the heart wants it never knows • 
Poorer by every gain it grows. 
Nothing can satisfy it. 
Yea, the wide world, though it had all, 
Is yet too small 
To occupy it. 

- Give all it asks, and it asks still. 
It is an abyss 
Of aching weariness 
Which only the infinite can fill. 

Poor heart ! couldst fathom thine own mind, 

True bliss is not so hard to find. 

That which thou seekest is not far, 

Hid in no dim and distant star. 

Gaze not away into the sky 

With that sad and weary eye. 

Close down thy lids ; shut out the night ; 

Reverse the lenses of thy sight. 

What thou dost lack is very nigh, 

When seen aright 

By the purer rays of the inward light. 



THE SPIRIT TO THE CHURCHES, 1 63 

Stir not ! Stay where thou art ; 

The King of Bliss is near. 

His very palace is here, 

And His throne is the human heart. 



THE SPIRIT TO THE CHURCHES. 

[from the apocalpyse.] 



Let him hear that hath a7i ear ! Let him hear the 

Spirit speaking I 
I know thy works. I know what thou hast done 
In the days now past and gone. 
I know thy patient years of self-denial. 
I know thy fortitude in trial. 
I 've seen thy readiness 
To aid thy brethren in distress. 
I 've seen thee come, with loving^ care, 
To deck my altar with bright flowers. 
A sweeter tribute brought the hours 
Which saw thee kneeling, 
When thy full heart spoke, and heard, 
By simple feeling, 
Needing no intermediate word. 
Thy prayers and tears, 
Thy trustful hopes, thy humble fears, 
Have all been noted by an eye 
That lets no love go by 
Unregistered, or unrequited, 
Be it only a syllable of prayer, 
Or a sigh into the soundless air. 
I 've seen thee in thy poverty, 
Wherein thy very need 
Did make thee rich : for he 



1 64 THE SPIRIT TO THE CHURCHES. 

Whose heart is poor is rich indeed. 
From false apostles thou hast turned, 
And their pretences spurned ; 
Yet willingly thy trust hast given 
To the true messengers of Heaven. 

Yei^ stay a inomeni j stay, and hear the Spirit speak- 
ing I 
All is not well. 

Something I have against thee. 
These by-gone years should have advanced thee, 
Not left thee standing still. 
Nay, thou hast lost thy early love. 
Thy heart, in growing older, 
Has grown most strangely colder, 
And hard to move. 

Behold ! I stand and knock at the door. 
Shall I knock in vain ? 
If thou hear me now, I come again ; 
If not, I come no more. 

II. 

Let him hear that hath an ear ! Let him hear the 

Spirit speaking ! 
I know thy works. They please me not, 
As in the days of old. 
Thou 'rt neither warm, nor cold. 
Would thou wert either cold, or hot ! 
Would thou wert either living, or dead. 
Since the signs of life are fled ! 
I cannot bear 

This set machinery of prayer. 
I sicken ; yea, my soul revolts 
At these dull duties, more than nobler faults. 
More desolate than death 



KING DAVID'S PENANCE. 1 65 

Is this lingering of faint breath, 
With death so nigh. 
If life be not amended, 
'T would be relief 
From a long grief 
To have the matter ended, 
And see thee die. 

Oh ! laggard soul, recall the height 
Whence thou art fallen, and thy steps retrace. 
Resume thy works of early grace ; 
Or I will come, with angry might. 
To move thy candle from its place. 
And quench thy flickering light. 
Let him hear that hath an ear ! Let him hear the 
Spirit speaking ! 



KING DAVID'S PENANCE. 



Why mourns King David so bitterly ? 
On a sleepless couch he lies ; 
And " Amplius lava me ! " he cries. 
Like a heart that is broken utterly. 

He moans in his palace so bitterly. 
Because a Prophet has been there. 
And charged him, as only a Prophet dare, 
With murder and foul lechery. 

Why weeps King David so bitterly ? 
Is not his sin forgiven ? 
Are not the shriving words from Heaven 
Engrossed in Heaven's chancery ? 

His sin is forgiven, but not all, 

"From thy house the sword shall not depart.' 



1 66 KING DAVID'S PENANCE. 

This doom is written on his heart, 
And blazoned on his palace wall. 

Why fasteth King David so bitterly ? 
The day of his sin is now long gone. 
Has penance not been rightly done ? 
Yea, done ; but not entirely. 

Deeds have been done ; words have been spoken. 
That which has been can be no more. 
The dusk of years cannot restore 
The sleep of innocence once broken. 

The cry of the broken heart alway 
For sin is " Amplius lava me !" 

II. 

I went to my guide 

With a sin of my youth ; 

I would have told him the same truth, 

Kneeling and weeping at his side, 

As I told it him before. 

But he bade me give o'er. 

'T is already confessed and shriven, he said ; 

Penance was done as given, he said ; 

Tears have been offered to Heaven, he said ; 

Tell the tale to me no more. 

His words I could not well gainsay ; 

But still my tears were flowing, 

And ever the cry of my heart outgoing 

Was " Amplius lava me ! " 

Nay, stay awhile, Brother, he said, I pray, 
If no vain scruple urge thee ; 
But thou, like David, wouldst deeper lave 
In the cleansing wave, 



THE RED RIVER, 1 67 

And with keener penance purge thee ; 

Let it be so. 

In these red waves thou canst not drown ; 

And for thy consolation, know, — 

However deep thou wilt go down, 

The sweetest grace is still below. 



THE RED RIVER. 



I saw them wash in the red river 

At the rising of the sun. 

I saw them wash in the red river 

At the hot hour of noon. 

They washed their garments in the river 

When the day was nearly gone. 

Their garments grew whiter and whiter 
As the red stream flowed on. 
Their faces grew brighter and brighter ; 
But alway their tears fell down ; 
And their labor grew none the lighter 
For the work that had been done. 

Rest now, ye weary penitents, 
And lay your washing down ! 
Joy now, ye pardoned criminals, 
And put your white robes on ! 
Look up, ye heirs of Paradise, 
And see the golden crown ! 

" We may not rest from labor, 
Nor cease to weep and groan. 
It is no time for robing, 
Till every spot is gone. 



1 68 GE THSEMA NE. 

We cannot look for crowning 
Till all life's work is done." 



Boast not too soon of sins forgiven. 

Be slow to lay thy penance by. 

Be slow to count thy crowns in Heaven ; 

M'aybe thy Heaven is not so nigh. 

Long and low the willow bendeth ; 

Sobbeth its sin, shadeth its shame ; 

Sobbeth and boweth ever the same. 

Life and penance together it endeth. 

True peace is a harvest gathered slow. 

Little by little grace doth grow. 

Who gave thee to look in the Book of Fate ? 

How canst thou know 

If thou be worthy of love or hate ? 

Wash deep in the crimson river ; 

Wash deep and long. A sinful act 

Stands always an eternal fact ; 

A sin is sin forever. 



GETHSEMANE 



Come, my beloved, come with me ! 

Come to Gethsemane ! 

I go to pray in its solemn shade, 

And seek relief. 

If so my Father please, 

From grief 

And this fast gathering dread, 

Under the silent olive trees. 



GETHSEMANE. 1 69 

I long to kneel once more 

In that dear wood, 

And unburden My heart in its solitude 

As I have done before. 

One hour remains that I can call My own, 

One hour only. 

I am lonely, 

Yet dread to be alone. 

Ah ! friends, keep near to Me ! 

Only My Father in heaven can know 

How dear to Me 

Ye are in this My hour of woe. 

Stay here ; here watch and pray 

While I go yonder. 

That tree, so old and gray, 

So stout and faithful in decay. 

Is a familiar friend, and under 

Its loving branches I will strive 

To soothe, or drive. 

This weight of woe away. 

A giant shape hangs overhead, 

A gross, misshapen elf. 

Formed to a hideous likeness of Myself. 

It fills My soul with dread. 

It is the forecast of that giant sorrow 

Which to-morrow 

Must needs be undergone. 

It is sin's eidolon. 

It is made up of shame, and pride. 

And stealthy fraud, and wrathful homicide, 

And the sickening disgust 

That follows the deed of lust. 

And the fumes of the drunkard's breath ; 

And every lie that falsehood hath 

Is there, — 



1 JO GE THSEMA NE. 

The atheist's dying glare, 

Foul thoughts that fester in the breast 

Where they are let to rest. 

All these take shape, 

And gaze, and gape, 

And in one complex form combine, 

As if that form were Mine. 

Father ! the phantom names Me ; 

It claims Me. 

It wears the robe which I must wear. 

It bears the crown which I must bear 

To-morrow. 

Father in heaven, be there. 

To save My spirit from despair 

Beneath this load of sorrow ! 

Oh, if it may. 

Let this cup pass away ! 

Yet, Father, Thy will be done. 



II. 



Simon, James, John, awake ! 

What ! slumbering every one ! 

Could ye not watch one hour for My sake ? 

Oh, watch and pray then for your own ! 

Danger is near. 

Temptation comes, and coward fear. 

Alas ! so heavy are their eyelids grown, 

They do not hear. 

Sleep on. 

So must I needs fulfil 

My Father's will, 

And meet this woe alone. 

Sleep on. I am not all deserted, 
Nor unsupported. 



THE CROWN OF THORNS. I/I 

A strong arm holds Me now. 

I feel a gentle hand upon My brow ; 

And My head is pressed, 

With soothing care, to a loving breast. 

My Father's angel brings Me this relief ; 

And 1 feel at length 

The strength 

To bear My load of grief. 

Sleep on. Sleep while ye may. 

And yet, there soon will come a day 

That ye will weep 

To think of this timeless sleep ; 

And how from My side ye fled away 

Like panic-stricken sheep, 

Because of the prayers ye did not say, 

And the watch ye failed to keep. 



THE CROWN OF THORNS. 



One night, in slumber deep, 

This vision came to me. 

In a dream, to me 

In the stillness of my sleep 

It came. Long years have gone 

Since that sad night. 

And the hair upon my head has grown 

To a silver white. 

But still that vision is the same to me 

As when it came to me 

In the lone hours of the night. 

Filling my soul with shame and grief. 

Slow time brings with it no relief. 

I saw my Lord in His throe ; 



172 THE CROWN OF THORNS, 

I saw Him hanging on the tree. 

This I distinctly saw, or so 

I seemed to see. 

And all the while He looked at me. 



" Look ! look ! " He said ; " see on My head 

The thorns which pierced My brain, 

And which I bore for thee. 

I wore for thee 

This crown of pain ; 

And I would do it all again. 

What wilt thou do for Me ? 

Oh ! have you the eyes to see. 

Have you the heart to feel, 

What I endured upon that hill, 

That dreadful hill of Calvary ? 

With a reed 

They smote My head 

To drive the thorns deeper in. 

They plucked the beard from My chin. 

And loud they cursed at Me. 

Can thought conceive 

The fulness of my agony ? 

Can any human heart believe 

All the inhuman cruelty, 

Of what they did to Me — 

The nails, the spear, the thorn, 

The fear, the shame, the scorn, 

Which I endured for thee, 

Unpitied, friendless, and alone, 

Upon that fatal tree ? 

heart of stone ! 

1 bore it then, 

And would a thousand times again. 
What wilt thou do for Me ? " 



THE CROWN OF THORNS. 1 73 



Crown of thorns ! thy crooked folds imply 
My heart's deep falsehood, and hypocrisy. 
Dear Lord, I know it now ; 

1 know who caused Thy death. 
Who wrought that wreath, 
And set it on Thy brow. 

'T was I. 

Traitor and spy. 

My perjured breath 

Sent Thee to death. 

I planted Thy Cross and then stood by. 

Joined to the rabble underneath. 

To see Thee die. 

These hands that plaited the crown 

Drove the sharp thorns deeper down. 

Each cruel spine 

Whose point grew red 

In Thy sacred Head, 

Was a sin of mine. 

O God ! mine was the sin, 

But the thorns that sank in. 

And the pain were Thine. 

'T was I ! 

Therefore, I weep, forever weep. 

For that vision of my sleep ; 

And because, whenever I pray, 

That bleeding Head I see ; 

And I hear that sad voice say 

Alway, alway : 

" What wilt thou do for Me ? " 



1/4 THE PASSION FLOWER. 



THE PASSION-FLOWER. 



Of all the flowers that blow, 

There is one 

I dearly love to look upon 

In its time of bloom ; although 

It grieves me, by the piteous show 

Of its scarlet vest. 

And the emblems of love, and woe 

(The crown, the hammer, the nails), that grow 

Upon its breast. 

For its petals seem to bleed ; 

And often my eyes are wet 

With tears of shame, and sore regret. 

To think that a simple flower should heed 

What I forget. 

Ere ever the ruddy stigmata grew 

In the palms of Louise Latou ; 

Ere ever the wondering mountaineers saw 

On the wounded feet of the Maid of Tyrol, 

As she lay entranced on her bed of straw. 

The blood course upward, as if the control 

Of nature were lost, and it knew no law 

But that of an agonized soul ; 

Ere ever St. Francis bore the signs 

Which a vision stamped on his hands and feet, 

Where fair Assisi holds her seat 

On the flank of the Apennines ; 

Before all these, a flowering vine 

On our American shore 

Like emblems bore. 



THE PASSION FLOWER. 1/5 

Sweet stigmatic ! great love is thine. 
With nothing to hope, and nothing to fear, 
Hereafter or here, 
Thou makest life-long meditation 
On the Saviour's death and passion. 
Yet Jesus never died for thee. 
Thou hast no share in His salvation. 
But oh ! He died for me ! 

II. 

It is an American flower ; 

It grows in Brazil and Peru. 

Great God ! was it felt here too ? — 

The shock of that awful hour 

Which heard the Saviour's dying groans ? 

When the sun grew dark at noon ? 

When the blood rushed full to the face of the moon ? 

When stars fell headlong from their thrones ? 

When earth shook through her vast extent, 

And the primeval rocks were rent ? 

Say ! was the horror telegraphed through 

To this our continent too ? 

Say ! did the same electric thrill 

Shake the heights and glades of Peru and Brazil, 

Breaking the news, sweet flower, to thee ? 

Say ! did it stamp thee so 

With these details of woe. 

And blazon thy breast with such heraldry ? 

Say ! did the trembling earth reveal it 

To the flowers that grew on her breast ; 

And didst thou feel it. 

Dear mourner, more than the rest ? 

Tell me, is that the reason why 

Thou bearest in every flowering bud 

These birth-marks of blood, 

Appealing from man to the righteous sky ? 



17^ THE BLEEDING TREE. 

Alas ! have I a heart of steel ? 

To me this tragedy is better known. 

For me this deed of love was done. 

Why am I then so slow to feel ; 

So loth by the Cross to linger 

In silence and alone ; 

Whilst thou art rapt in meditation, 

Each filament, like a prophet's finger, 

Pointing to Jesus' passion ? 



THE BLEEDING TREE. 



Knowest thou the Holy Rood ? 

Knowest thou that saving tree 

From whose foot on Calvary 

Goes forth a trail of precious blood ? 

Long it braveth storm, worm, flood. 

None grow so fair to see. 

Yet its branches always drip, drip ; God ! 

The drops fall fast and free ! 

With blossoms it was overspread. 

Oh ! it was strange to see 

Those blossoms all so crimson red ! 

Yet, here is a stranger mystery, — 

That every bud and blossom bled, 

Dripping, dripping overhead. 

Dripping continually. 

Yea, for all the drops so freely shed, 

Still they fall fast and free ! 

From under the Rood a spring goes forth. 
Flowing fast and free ; 



THE BLEEDING TREE. 1 77 

Sending out from their place of birth 

Red streams of charity 

East, west, south, north, 

In winding channels around the earth. 

They stop not for land, nor sea. 

Blood of Christ, pass not my hearth ! 
Flow in to me ! 

Hail, saving Wood ! Hail, mercy's shrine ! 

All hail, thou throbbing artery 

Of blood divine, 

That sendest love so far to me ! 

Hail ! eyes all pure and crystalline. 

That mingled tears with the costly wine 

Poured out so free ! 

While light shall glisten, dear Lord, in mine, 

1 '11 make them weep for Thee ! 



Flow on ! cease not, O ruddy tide, 

Flow ever on ! 

Each globule bears from the sacred Side 

Enough of riches to atone 

For all the wrong which lust and pride 

Have ever done. 

But oh ! the untold wealth of lives 

Crushed in these human hives, 

And to perdition gone ! 

Flow on ! flow on ! ere more be lost ! 

What wealth but Thine can pay the cost 

Of only one ? 

Speed on ! Another stream as strong, 
And full as swift, doth flow. 
Time bears our helpless souls along 
To endless weal, or woe. 



178 THE INTERIOR LIFE. 

Secure and slow, 

The ages through their cycles glide, 

And find no ebb to the living tide. 

But, with single lives, not so. 

Like the brief spark of the fire-fly, 

We brighten to die ; 

Gone with one glow. 

Ah ! Precious Blood, flow in to me ! 

Mine is the greatest need. 

Sore wounded by the enemy, 

I bleed. 

Where is the power to interpose 

Before my forfeit life shall close ? 

What plea have I to plead ? 

Speed ! speed ! 

To thee alone the power is given. 

Flow in, between my soul and heaven 

To intercede. 

Yea, like a deep and mighty sea, 

In thy 'billows bury me, 

Till I be pure indeed. 



THE INTERIOR LIFE. 

Our little sister has no breasts. 

What shall our sister do^ 

I 71 the day when she is spoken to V 

— Canticles vii. 



Our little sister never rests ; 
She goes too much abroad ; 
So much walking upon the road 
Doth waste and weary her. 



THE INTERIOR LIFE. 1 79 

Come home, tired heart, to thy interior ! 

Close up thy door to the world outside ; 

Shut down thy windows tight ; 

Exclude the noise and the glaring light. 

There 's a world within thee far more wide, 

And a sky more bright. 

Thou wilt find there 

A fresher life and a purer air. 

Oh ! 't is a holy and calm retreat ; 

A solitude so still, 

So solemnly soft, and sweet, 

That even the tread of angels' feet 

Would break the spell. 

There, in thy heart's far centre, 

Sits a Prince, upon a royal seat ;- 

Enter ! enter ! enter ! 

And sit at His feet. 

He will tell thee more than books can teach, 

Or human science reach. 

O sister ! 't is a glorious thing 

To be housekeeper to so great a King ! 

In thine own inmost hall, 

To have and hold, 

Yea, with the fibres of thy life infold. 

The Lord that holdeth and infoldeth all ! 

II. 

O sweet interior life ! thou art 

The Eden of the heart ; 

Thine is the soul's true atmosphere. 

Inflowing from the heights of prayer, 

A pure inspiring air 

Makes feeling quicker, breathing freer ; 

And words are whispered into the ear 

So far surpassing thought, 

So full of solemn wisdom fraught, 



l8o CHRIST LOST AND FOUND. 

So soft, so low, so sweet, so near. 

The wide, rude world can furnish naught 

So precious and so dear. 



CHRIST LOST AND FOUND. 

[from the canticles.] 
I. 

Daughters of Juda, turn at my prayer ! 
Pity me. 

My Love is gone ; I know not where. 
Woe is me ! 

1 scorned my Love when He kissed my brow, 
And left Him under the apple bough. 

He is lost to me. 

O Sisters ! did you know my Love ? 

He was fair. 

Comely and gracious was Jesus, above 

All compare. 

He drew me to Him when He spoke. 

He bound me to Him with a lock 

Of His golden hair. 

The Watchmen found me on the street. 

Woe is me ! 

With broken vows, and low deceit, 

They taunted me. 

They tore the veil from off my face, 

Yet my heart's loss, more than disgrace, 

Sore wounded me. 



'PRORATE CCELir l8l 



I found my Love, where my Love was lost ; 

At the trysting tree ; 

He leaned His head where the branches crossed, 

Waiting for me. 

Why I scorned Him I cannot tell ; 

But this I know, I love my Love well, 

And my Love loves me. 

My Love is mine for all that has passed. 

Under the bough 

Of the apple-tree, He bound me fast 

By a new vow, 

I brought Him to my Mother's house, 

There will I bide His faithful spouse. 

As never till now. 



RORATE CCELI." 

IsAi. v., 8. 



" O Heavens ! in all your wide domain 

Can there no dew be found ? 

O clouds ! have ye no rain 

To fall upon the ground. 

And save the grain ? 

Look down on our distress ; 

Look all around ; 

Witness this barrenness ; 

See how the parched and thirsty earth 

Is cursed with dearth. 

And to her centre drying ! 



1 82 '' RORATE CCELI." 

Can tender seed find birth 

When the old growths are dead, or dying ? 

Only fear and famine thrive. Like shadows 

We hide from the cloudless sky, 

Seeing no sign in its burning eye 

Of tears for fields or meadows. 

O send down rain ! 

Revive the barren ground again ! 

Give it the power of birth, 

That salvation may come forth 

With the new-born grain ! " 

'T is thus, with gesture and impatient mouth, 

The farmers cry 

To earth and sky, 

In the time of drouth. 

O Christ ! was ever earth more sterile, 

Was ever drouth more dry, 

Was ever less moisture in the sky, 

Ever more souls in peril, 

Than when thou layest in the gloom 

Of Mary's womb, 

And the Church, like a starved earth, 

Lay drooping 

All that long Advent, faintly hoping 

For a Saviour's birth ? 

Truth was a folded book, unread ; 

Faith slept above the darkened letters ; 

God's love, in fetters, 

Could bring to dying hope no aid ; 

What light the ancient prophecies supplied 

Blind ignorance denied. 

Only this feeble prayer. 

From a faithful few in Hebrew land, 

Rose, like a wail from the dry sand, 

Into the heedless air. 



'PRORATE CCELir 1 83 



^'' Rorate Cceliy Heaven speed ! 
A world travails in pain. 
Pour down the blessed rain 
On Abram's seed ! 
Combine, combine, 
O human and divine, 
And bring a Saviour forth, 
A child of Heaven and earth. 
And save the grain ! " 



^^ Rorate Coeli ! '' Heaven bedew 

My heart so hardened and so dry ; 

So shut to the good and true. 

So open to each passer by. 

" Rorate Coeli I " give me rain ! 

Water my soul with grace ! 

O bring me face to face 

With my deserted love again ! 

Bring back the joy of early years, 

A joy that grew 'mid hopes and fears, 

With all those quick transitions 

To sweeter joy from desolations ! 

Bring back the noble, high ambitions ; 

Bring back the inspirations 

Which roused my soul in early days. 

When first I learned to love my Lord ; 

When to my centre I was stirred 

By the music of His praise ; 

When it needed but a word, 

A simple echo of His voice 

From the altar heard. 

To move me ; 

And all I asked of bliss 

Was this, — 

That Whom I loved would love me ! 



1 84 PA LM- S UNDA V. 

" Rorate Ccclt f " come, sweet Spirit, 

Come to thy home again ; 

Descend like a summer rain ; 

Come to thy manor and inherit ; 

With the moisture of thy breath bedew it, 

And so renew it. 

That golden grain may grow 

Where all is bare and desert now ! 



PALM-SUNDAY. 



Say ! shall I see Him ? 
Shall I see my Lord one day, 
When this veil is drawn away ? 
Will the vision really be — Him ; 
Jesus that came from Galilee, 
Riding to death in jubilee ? 

Say ! shall I hear Him ; 

Hear Him speaking low and sweet, 

As friends speak when friends meet ? 

Shall I be so very near Him 

That His language would be clear 

If only whispered to my ear ? 

Say ! shall I know Him ? 

Shall I have the golden key 

Unlocking every mystery 

Of love belonging to Him ? 

Find in my own some counterpart 

To the love of that great Heart ? 



THE SONG OF SONGS. 1 85 

II. 

Let me follow now ! 

Master ! here I am. 

Behold my palm, 

Behold my waving bough ! • 

Jesus, Thou art dear to me. 

Pass not unheeding near to me. 

Shall I serve Thee where I am ? 

Ah ! He is gone ; 

And I stand alone 

With my waving bough of palm. 

Saviour ! I would serve Thee true. 

Is there aught that I can do ? 

I would not serve for hire. 

I make no bargain, Lord. 

Speak but the word ; 

Leaps my soul to Thy desire. 

Give Thy love, and take my own — 

I shall be rich with love alone. 



THE SONG OF SONGS. 

'^Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth." 

— Canticles i., 2. 



Who speaks ? 

The words are full of fire. 

Some soul all wrought to strong desire 

The silence breaks. 

Ah ! let no spirit coarse and vain, 

With thought profane 



1 86 7^ HE SONG OF SONGS. 

Of earthly joy and sensual love, 
Interpret sounds that thrill with prayer, 
Pure sighs that rise to Heaven above, 
And were inspired there. 

Who speaks ? 

It is Christ's bride ; a maid, 

In her nuptial robe arrayed, 

With maiden blushes on her cheeks ; 

A maid, but wearing her nuptial ring ; 

A royal bride 

That stands beside 

Her Lord ; and He the Son of a King, 

Holding her hand in His. 

God ! is there happiness like this, — 

The joy of a soul that gives Thee all, 

Without condition, question of recall, 

And only asks for a kiss ? 

II. 

Once I gave my soul away ; 

Took no thought for liberty. 

Then and there, in simple fee, 

All to Christ did I convey. 

Head, heart, home, hope, — 

All I freely rendered up 

On my wedding-day. 

Happy was I that all was gone ; 

Happy and rich in my poverty 

To feel that nothing was left to me 

That I could call my own, 

Not even my soul. 

That too I deeded over 

In absolute fee to my Lord and Lover. 

Christ had the whole. 



FEELING IN DEVOTION. 1 8/ 

I was love's prodigal. 

*' Since love is mine," I said, 

" I am well paid ; 

For love pays all." 

When glad, to sing its joy love longs. 
My joy took shape in melody and measure. 
A song was born of my pleasure. 
And I called it " The song of songs." 
It was only a prayer for a kiss ; 
But, as I meant it, it seemed to me 
That the compass of time and eternity 
Was comprehended all in this. 

Woe 's me ! for the darkened day 
When that prayer shall not prevail ; 
When that music in my soul shall fail ; 
When that song shall die away ! 



FEELING IN DEVOTION. 



Betimes, when Christian men are kneeling, 
Their prayers are mingled so with tears 
'T would seem such show of feeling 
Must needs be born of holy love ; 
That only a rain from the sky above 
Could fill the eyes to overflow 
So plentifully. Yet not so ; 
For I tell thee frank and truly. 
Such weepers are often within 
Unhallowed, and tainted with sin ; 
And their lives grow never more holy. 
Ah ! there are some that kneel 
Who pray not, for all their kneeling ; 



1 88 FEELING IN DEVOTION. 

And there are those that feel 

Who love not, for all their feeling. 

There is in nature a tenderness 

That is not godly piety ; 

And there is an inborn gentleness 

That is not charity ; 

A certain shadow of grace may stay, 

For many a day, 

Where grace has no control ; 

And hence 

A taste of sweetness may be in the sense 

Which is not in the undersoul. 

Trust not to mere emotion. 

It will deceive thee, 

And leave thee 

As far as ever from devotion. 

All thou canst do, 

All that quick sense can move thee to. 

Which does not go to mend thy living, 

Is but a dream of self-deceiving. 

Thy life will be a mimic trance, 

And thou a saint of pure romance. 

But this is genuine devotion : 
A loving, true, and ready will ; 
An earnest resolution 
God's pleasure to fulfil 
In all things, and alway ; 
To do the right, and shun the ill ; 
Not only worship, praise, and pray, 
But to be holy, and obey. 

II. 

What though thy soul be dry. 
Barren and chill, 



FEELING IN DEVOTION. 

If God be nigh ? 

Stay on the upper hill, 

And build a tabernacle there 

For a higher, holier prayer 

That sense can feel. 

I know an Alpine mountain cone. 

In the Valais it holds its seat. 

With a glacier to mufHe its feet. 

Thence creeping forth, the river Rhone 

Descends, with many a bound, 

To thaw his blood on warmer ground. 

But look up high ! 

Higher, still higher raise thine eye 

To the very point of that icy spire 

Where, sharpened to one intense desire 

To pierce the sky. 

Stands fixed in holy prayer the hill. 

So lift thy chastened will 

To the high overthrone, 

Forgetful of the sensual Rhone, 

Craving thy heat from the sun alone. 

Through chill or cheer, 

There wait 

At Heaven's gate 

Until thy sun appear ; 

Naught asking, all thy vigil through, 

Save to be near. 

Save to be true. 

And, if thy sun appear not, grieve not, 

Fear not, doubt not ; and believe not 

That God in anger hides His face. 

What though the sense receive not, 

If only the soul finds grace ! 



1 90 E SCA PEMEN T. 



ESCAPEMENT. 



Tick ! tick ! tick ! 

clock ! thou art too quick ; 
With iron finger chasing time, 

And measuring out so sharp for me, 

In rhythmic beats and clicking rhyme, 

My onward march to destiny. 

Belay ! stop ! stay ! rest ! 

Art thou so pressed ? 

O, scrupulous painstaker. 

Art thou so conscientious in thy line ? 

Art so accountable unto thy maker, 

As I to mine ? 

II. 

Oh ! oh ! oh ! 

Tedious cold hour-hand, why creepest so ? 

1 cannot bear that rigid finger 
Crawling so stealthily around. 

As void of seeming motion as of sound. 

Blind tentacle, why dost thou linger ? 

What art thou feeling for, and hast not found ? 

" I am feeling for a hollow in the ground ; 

I am feeling for the breast of a mound, 

A motionless, unpanting breast. 

Where a hot heart that pants too fast, 

Relieved at last. 

May lull itself to rest 

In the cool clay or sand. 

Master ! the hour of thy repose 

Should bring me rest, and so forever close 

The weary service of an hour-hand." 



THE SAME OLD TERMS. I9I 

III. 

Well ! well ! well ! 
Who can tell 

What is fast or what is slow ? 
Oft the hours seem to leap ; 
Often too with snail-like creep 
The lagging minutes go. 
Only earnest bosoms know 
How to measure time. 
When pulses beat by healthy rule, 
When duty fills the hours full, 
Then life is steadfast and sublime. 



THE SAME OLD TERMS. 

Lord, here before Thy face. 

Bold beggar, asking grace, 
I knock at Thy pavilion door, 

As hungry as before. 

Again we meet to-day, 

As we met yesterday, 
Reaching familiar arms to arms 

Upon the same old terms. 

I bring my sins and woes. 
Weak faith, forgotten vows, 

And wearily to Thee I plead 
Once more the self-same need. 

Thou bringest life and health. 

Stores of celestial wealth. 
Wilt interchange, dear Lord, such ware 

For a poor sinner's prayer ? 



192 OVERBOARD, ALL. 

Turn not Thy face away 

From the old tale to-day. 
Nay ! once for all make all things new, 

To show what grace can do. 



OVERBOARD, ALL. 



On an overloaded bark I ride. 
How shall I ever make the shore ? 
Throw the cargo over the side ! 
In a sea like this, 
So much cargo is foolishness. 
Lighten the ship ! More ! More ! 

On an overloaded bark I ride. 

I am the wild wind's sport. 

The waves that climb the vessel's side 

Have swept my mates into the sea. 

Only my Pilot is left to me 

To show me into port. 

On an overloaded bark I ride, 
Heavily plunging in the sea. 
That swash has swept away my Guide. 
Only the ship now ; and high and far 
One hopeful light, the northern star, 
Looks down on my misery. 

On an overloaded bark I ride, 

And still encumbered. Strip ! then, strip ! 

Keep naught for comfort, naught for pride, 



OVERBOARD, ALL. 1 93 

Cast all away ! the whole ! the whole ! 
Stand ready to swim, O naked soul, 
Or sink with the sinking ship ! 

'T is over now. I am alone. 
Only the tempest is left to me. 
Cargo, crew, Pilot, ship, — all gone. 
Afloat on the deep in a starless night, — 
O God ! Can I make myself more light, 
More helplessly hang on Thee ! 

II. 
On a desolate shore of the sea I stand. 
Alone with the sky, and the sand, and the sea, 
Like Crusoe on his desert island ; 
And little by little the waves bring back 
All that I lost, all that I lack ; 
All comes floating back to me. 

Box, and barrel, and bundle, and bale, 
Locker, plate, clothing, and all my gear. 
Block, and spar, and cordage, and sail. 
Drift through the breakers to the shore, — 
Safe all, and stauncher than before. 
What wealth of treasure trove is here ! 

What boat is this so like to mine ? 
It brings my crew from the foam of the sea, 
All dripping with crystals from the brine. 
They leap from the breakers to the strand. 
And clasp me eagerly by the hand. 
Welcome, dear comrades, home to me ! 

What 's this in the offing that meets my eye. 
So safely anchored, riding a-lee ? 
'T is my wreck, with her tall masts looming high, 
And her signal flying at the peak. 



194 ^A^ ^^^ NEAR. 

Is that my Pilot stands on the deck ? 
Great God of love ! He signals me. 

Now welcome back, my trusty Guide ! 
Dark was the wave with Thee away. 
Perhaps Thou wert always at my side. 
Maybe some part of my wreck was a dream, 
Though solemnly real the whole did seem 
To a spirit dizzy with dismay. 

God ! teach me the true economy. 
To keep is not the way to save ; 
Wealth lies in the deepest poverty ; 
Christ's millionaires count not the cost ; 
The storm once past, they shall have most 
Who cast their all into the wave. 



FAR AND NEAR. 



Say, which is the nearest, the years, as they roll, 

Or the hand that driveth history ; 

The show of facts, or law in mystery ; 

The sky of the sight, or the sky of the soul ; 

The changeful drapery of the real ; 

Or the deep, immutable ideal ? 

Make it as pleaseth thee, 

As sense or deeper reason seizeth thee. 

Lord of the near, and of the far, 

Both worlds thy paint and gilding bear. 

Hearts have a ready power and skill 

To draw their landscapes out at will, 



FAR AND NEAR. I95 

Give size and presence to their treasures, 

Light and color to their pleasures. 

Use then thy art ; 

Measure all distance by thy heart. 

And yet, for all, be there illusion, 

Time will shatter it, 

Death will scatter it ; 

Cometh all falsehood to confusion. 

Say, which is nearest, what thou hearest. 

Or what thou canst not hear ? 

There are words that come not in at the ear, 

But are inborn. These are the nearest. 

What the ear hears is outside noise ; 

But far below lies the undertone. 

It speaks to the naked soul alone, 

And is eloquent voice. 

Hark to what the ground tone saith ! 

It knoweth no time, reacheth no term, 

Forever resteth fast and firm. 

Dies not away in the silence of death. 

But riseth then to a cry. 

An accent, language, all inspiring breath, 

Deeper than hell, than heaven more high. 

Oh ! wilt thou hear it ? 

Lay not thine ear to the ground ; 

List not for some far-coming sound ; 

Thou 'rt very near it. 

When all this outside noise is still, 

God speaks loud to the silent will. 

II. 

There is no far ; there is no near ; 
There is no hence ; there is no here ; 
There is no day ; there is no night ; 



196 REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD. 

There is neither great nor small 

In presence of the infinite All. 

Distance is but imperfect sight. 

Day is blank midnight to the blind ; 

So, to the sin-darkened mind, 

Which lacks the higher sense of seeing. 

Heaven shows no light, God is dim being. 

Ah ! could we look at things aright, 

Fit nobler lenses to our sight, 

Rise to a higher photosphere 

Than glimmers on our senses here, 

The near would change places with the far. 

The things that seem with things that are ; 

The earth would sink like a dream of the night, 

The sky would fold away like a scroll ; 

And the unveiled vision of the soul, 

Wide open to the all-fair, all-bright, 

Like God's own eye would scan the whole, 

And to the foreground bring the infinite. 



REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD. 



They are dead. They are not here. 

They are gone, but not far. 

We know not where they are. 

Though they be near. 

We cannot hear their speech. 

Their moaning cannot reach 

The keenest ear. 

And yet we hold a sad belief 

(A balance made of hope and fear, 

Of loss computed in with gain, 



i 



REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD. 1 97 

Of comfort comprehending grief) 

That souls, to heaven and us most dear, 

Abide in pain. 

Oh ! can we nothing spare 

For their relief, 

To make their penance light or brief ? 

Has love no tear ? Has faith no prayer ? 

Though they be dead, does death hold all ? 

Is nothing left unburied ? 

When to the graveyard they were hurried, 

Did the dull earth fall 

On all that in their lives we knew 

Of beautiful and true, 

Leaving love's duty paid 

By the sexton's spade, 

With nothing more to do ? 

And if death find some taint of sin 

In souls so true (as needs it must), 

Some debt with Justice to adjust. 

Before their Heaven can begin, 

Is penance done by mold and rust ? 

Is there a filtering power in dust 

To make the spirit clean ? 

Is there a friendship in cold clay ? 

Ah, no ! But earnest love can pay 

Some portion of a lover's debt, 

And we, who tread the tearful Valley yet. 

Can give our tears, and pray. 

II. 

How cruel to forget the dead ! 
Were there no ties but such as bind 
Each creature to its kind, 
Our tribute should be paid. 



1 98 DOM IN us REGIT ME. 

But Christians ! — with one destiny, 
Redeemed on the same Calvary, 
Sealed to one vast eternity. 
And when old loves and friendships plead- 
To forget them in their need 
Is heartless cruelty. 
Hark ! from the purifying flames 
They call us in their agony ; 
They call us by our names, 
By every tender memory 
They urge their claims 
Upon our charity, 
And this is their woful litany : 
" O saltern vos, ainici inei, 
Miser e??iini'' 



DOMINUS REGIT ME. 



The Lord is my Shepherd. What want have I ? 

He leadeth me ; 

He feedeth me ; 

I graze where the green meadows lie. 

I follow the crook 

Of my gentle Guide 

To the margin of the brook. 

Where the crystal waters glide ; 

And tranquilly upon its mossy brink 

I drink 

Sweet draughts from the flowing tide. 

When Cometh the noon-day heat, 

He leadeth His sheep to a cool retreat, 

Where drooping willows wet their feet 

At the water side. 

And they sleep ; and their sleep is sweet. 



DOM IN us REGIT ME. 1 99 

Betimes they hide beneath a rock, 
Where shelter is supplied, far and wide, 
By the shadow of its mighty side, 
To all the flock, 

Lord, Thy rule is sweet ; 
Here might and mercy meet, 
And love is law. 

Here faithful at Thy feet. 
Conscious of awe. 
But more by love controlled, 
Lead me thus ever by Thy rod, 
My Shepherd, and my God, 
And keep me ever in Thy fold. 

II. 

There 's a shadow on the valley where I feed. 
There 's a chill upon the path wherein I tread. 

1 know what sense so apprehendeth. 
And where this lower living endeth. 
I know why oft, with sudden start. 
Back to my heart 

The blood doth rally ; 

And what it is that cramps my breath. 

A shadow overcasts the valley ; 

And the shadow is that of death. 

Yet wherefore should I feed in fear ? 

My Shepherd is still near. 

I see Him signal from the green hill-side, 

My steps to guide 

Away from the forbidden bounds 

Back to the slopes, the lawns, the springs, 

And the permitted pasturings 

Of my allotted grounds. 

Yea, Lord, what though 



200 THE COMMUNICANT. 

I see death's shadow deeper grow, 
As chilled I wander to and fro 
Along the meadow ; 
Thy staff and crook shall be my stay 
Till comes the dawn of the new Day 
To chase this shadow. 



THE COMMUNICANT. 



Is any thing brighter than light ? 

Can any thing be half so bright ? 

Yea, yea ; 

I dare presume. 

With Holy Chrysostona, 

To say it, and do say : 

More brilliant far the mouth whose food 

Is Angels' bread ; 

Richer the tongue which is ruby red 

With a Saviour's blood. 

Each guest from the sacrificial feast doth part 

More radiant than the ray 

Which the sun, in the burning heat of mid-day. 

Speeds from his throbbing heart. 

Can any thing impure abide 

In such a furnace tried ? 

Oh, say ! 

Can a soul be pressed to that mighty Side, 

And not come in a flame away ? 

Ah ! while I hang upon that Breast, 
Angels from Heaven in surprise 
Their steps arrest. 
And hide their eyes. 



THE COMMUNICANT. 20] 

Wings suddenly fold in the air. 
For the Messenger Spirits would not presume 
At such a time, by the wave of a plume, 
To tempt my soul from prayer. 



Say ! tell me, is it long 

Since the Blood of Christ was on my tongue ? 

Oh ! say, 

Has the fragrance all passed from my breath away ? 

Am I yet free, quite free again. 

To mingle among men ? 

Can I ever be as I was before, — 

So thoughtless, reckless, careless. 

So godless, lifeless, prayerless ? 

Shall I be fickle forevermore ? 

Will not the blessing of -this Sacrament, 

So lately tasted. 

Stay in my soul unwasted 

Until my life itself is spent ? 

Or, alas ! will this too take flight. 

Like the joy of other feasts ? — 

Home speed the wearied guests. 

Out goes the light. 

Of all the creatures Thou hast made, 
O God, all hunger for their bread. 
And this is mine. 

When wilt Thou spread again Thy board. 
And feed to me this life divine, 
My life transforming into Thine ? 
Oh ! come before I faint, dear Lord, 
For want of bread and wine ! 



^'REVELATIONS OF DIVINE 
LOVE." 

MEDITATIONS 

SELECTED, ADAPTED, AND VERSIFIED FROM THE 
ORIGINAL OF 

MOTHER JULIANA, 

AN ENGLISH RECLUSE OF THE T4TH CENTURY. 



203 



REVELATIONS OF DIVINE LOVE. 

[from mother JULIANA.] 



THE LITTLENESS OF CREATION. 



I said : What is this thing I see, 

Which my good Master showeth me ? 

In the palm of my hand it lies, 

A little ball 

So light and small, 

A tiny hazel-nut would fill its place. 

Lord ! do me a further grace. 

And read this mystery to me. 

What can it be ? 

And my good Lord said : 

" 'T is all was ever made." 

Now well I know this world is great, 
A thing of mighty bulk and weight, 
By far more grand 

Than a little nut on the palm of my hand. 
Far it extendeth ; 

God only knows where nature endeth, 
And the curtains of creation close. 
But this is the reason why 
It showed so little to my eye ; 
In the presence of God it lay, 
205 



206 SEEKING AND BEHOLDING. 

And my soul was in a mood that day 

To lose sight 

Of a magnitude so slight. 



Now this little thing that was made, methought 

It should have fallen to naught, 

So little it seemed to the eye 

When God was by. 

I marvelled it should last at all. 

I wondered whether 

It had enough to hold together. 

It seemed so very small. 

And it was answered to my mind ; 

Yea, it lasteth, and ever shall, 

For God loveth it well. 

This then I find : 

In God is neither small nor great. 

Naught measures by its magnitude, 

Naught weigheth by its weight. 

But He is good ; 

And all that love did once create 

Love still must needs include. 

He that made all things loseth naught 

By any change or afterthought. 

Faileth no link in Love's long chain. 

Bideth all being that once hath been. 



SEEKING AND BEHOLDING. 



One thing it is to seek God wistfully. 

Another to behold Him blissfully ; 

But patiently to seek, or blessedly to see. 



SEEKING AND BEHOLDING. 20/ 

Methinks are workings of one quality, 
And profiteth the soul all one, 
So His holy will be done. 

We grope in darkness where there is no seeing. 

But whom we seek He seeth clearly, 

And that we crave His sight so dearly 

Much pleaseth the Overlord, wise Being, 

Who hideth Himself a little space, 

Leaving us lost and lonely. 

And full of sorrow, only 

To give some other time a sweeter grace. 

Cometh the time erelong in any case 

(God speed the day) 

When the soul, more loving for long delay, 

More hungry for long fasting. 

Shall open her eyes 

With ever marvelling surprise 

To see His blissful face for everlasting. 



II. 

In seeking for a closer view 

Of God, it is His will and pleasure 

That by three holy rules we measure 

The working of our hearts thereto. 

First, we must seek Him verily. 

And busily, yet cheerfully, yea merrily, 

Casting aside all baleful melancholy, 

All childish show of rueful face. 

And yield our wayward spirits w^holly 

To every motion of His grace. 

With full entire devotion. 

And secondly, that steadfast, in good cheer, 

We do abide His time, and wait, 



208 yESUS OUR HEAVEN. 

Like patient beggars, at the gate, 

Until it please Him to appear. 

And last, that mightily we trust in Him, 

And ever trustfully we rest in Him, 

And cling to Him with faith unfailing, 

That, by His grace, 

The time shall come of His unveiling 

When we shall see His face. 

For longeth earnestly our Heavenly Friend 

To bring us to this blissful sight, 

And change our gloom to light. 

He worketh steadily to this one end, 

For His love is ever gracious, 

Familiar, tender, pressing, precious, 

And full of royal courtesy. 

Forever blessed mote He be ! 



JESUS OUR HEAVEN. 



Long I lay sick and sad, 

And, by the feeling of the pains I had, 

I thought that I should die. 

Long I lay, weary and lonely, 

Though whiles dear friends were by. 

My sight began to fail ; and only 

For the Cross that hung upon the wall, 

And a light that shone 

(I wist not how) 

On the bleeding Brow, 

Methought that all was gone 

Of life and light. 

And in a sea of starless night 

My day was drowned. 



yESUS OUR HEAVEN. 209 

Thus lying, 

And, as to my seeming, dying, 

Above, beneath, and all around 

Began a whispering and laughter in the air, 

In mockery, as if damned fiends, 

By the malice of such means, 

Would drive me to despair. 

Betimes I would have turned my head 

To look into the gloom. 

But that my soul was overcome 

By dread. 

And sore misgiving of these goblin tricks ; 

And in my terror to myself I said : 

They will seize my soul for treason 

Should my eyes stir from the Crucifix. 

Then something in my reason, 

Some voice of hope breathing through faith, 

Or some diviner breath, 

" Look up," it said, '' look up, thou craven ! 
Here 's nothing to alarm thee ; 
Nothing is there can harm thee 
Betwixt the Cross and Heaven." 



Now, when this heavenly voice 

Bade me look up, no choice 

Had I but simply to obey, 

Or courteous answer must be given. 

And I said : '' Nay, 

I may not, for Thou art my Heaven." 

My meaning was, so might it please my Lord, 

I would not ; for that I preferred 

Gladly till doomsday to remain 

In all my pain 

Than even to enter Paradise 



210 BENEDICITE DOMINE. 

In any other wise 

Than by His own dear Cross. 

Yet well I wot who bound me thus 

He could unbind me too. 

A comfort 't is that then and there 

I spoke this word on my bed of pain. 

And so, I trow. 

Stands my heart now ; 

No other Heaven but Christ for me ! 

For time and for eternity 

My pledge is given : 

Jesus alone shall be my Heaven ! 



BENEDICITE DOMINE. 



In sorrow one day, as I prayed 

And lingered in prayer, 

I saw in the air 

The Cross, and Christ's bleeding Head. 

To my sad seeming 

I saw the red blood streaming 

From under the thorny crown. 

The pellets trickled down 

Hot, fresh, and plentiful ; 

Yet, flow as they might. 

To my poor sight, 

The fair face of Jesus was beautiful. 

Tears I wept, of joy and woe, 
To see the dear Head so fair. 
And bleeding so ; 
But this was my only prayer ; 
I said " Benedicite'' 



BENEDICITE DOM IN E. 211 

And all the while the blood did flow 

I said '■^ Benedicite Do7nine^'' 

And could not stop. 

Like beads upon a rosary 

My heart did count each drop, 

And I said '''■ Benedicitey 

For I knew, and I know, 

That this sad show 

Was a showing of His love ; and so 

In sad simplicity 

To the Cross that hung above I said, 

And to the bleeding Head, 

" Bene die He ! " 



I looked at the fair, sad face again. 

Its beauty was gone. 

The ruddy drops had gathered upon 

A visage all in pain, 

Deathlike, and dark, 

And marred by many an ugly mark. 

Yea, all that holy Head 

Was overspread 

With a changeful light and shade. 

And often, to my view, 

The bleeding changed in quantity, and hue. 

Now it ran quick ; 

Now slow, and dry, and thick. 

Now it was living red, now sallow. 

And when, on one side, a shadow grew 

From midface to the ear. 

Then a bloody flush would follow, 

As suddenly to disappear. 

Thus ever the color came and went. 

Now this disfigurement 



212 THE ROYAL DEBTOR. 

I greatly sorrowed to see. 

I marvelled how it could be. 

Scarce had I strength to pray 

My Benedicite. 

For verily I say, 

And do believe, and ever shall maintain 

(Save only for the sorrow and pain 

Of His dying day), 

So fair a man was never none 

Beneath God's golden sun. 

But this, I was afterwards made to see. 

Was an emblem of our inconstancy ; 

Yea, the foul black deeds that we have done. 

The which our blessed Lord did bear 

For our dear love on Calvary, 

Unaided and alone 

Sustaining there. 

Upon His single back, 

A burden would make a Heaven black. 

And all but a God despair. 

O Jesu., Benedicite ! 



THE ROYAL DEBTOR. 



Behold what my good Lord 

Once said ; not to my ear, nor stirred 

A breath of air ; but by an inward showing, 

A secret precious interviewing 

Granted betimes in prayer. 

" I thank thee for thy patient faith, 

And for the service of thy youth." 

And this to every soul He saith 

That worshippeth in earnest truth. 



THE ROYAL DEBTOR, 213 

Now methought I was lifted bodily- 
Through the deep air, 
Through the fair blue canopy- 
To the calm heights of Heaven where 
The Lord our God doth reign. 
Methought He had gathered there and then 
His friends to a solemn feast. 
I saw Him take no place, no seat ; 
But as often happens when tenants meet 
Their Lord at his own behest, 
In his own hall, 

Christ lent Himself to every guest.. 
Quick answering to every calj[, 
With a sweet courtesy 
Most ravishing to see. 
Yet royally reigning over all. 

God's truth i fair was it to see and hear ; 

And ever as He moved along 

Amid the throng, 

He spake to each and every ear 

In sweet low breath 

These words of cheer and earnest truth : 

'' I thank thee for thy patient faith, 

And for the service of thy youth." 



Methought, as I gazed on the solemn scene, 

That all the service had ever been. 

And the labor of all living men 

Might not deserve such thanks as then 

God singly gave to each alone. 

Full homely then was it made plain. 

Right sweetly was it shown, 

That the age of every man is known ; 

And a full record of his years 



214 GAME AND EARNEST. 

Of faithful service done appears 

On the calendar of Heaven ; 

Yea, carefully is counted even 

Each footstep on the road 

That leadeth him to God ; 

He getteth pay for the full space 

Wherein uplooking to the overthrone 

Whence cometh needful grace 

His soul in charity he keepeth ; 

Yea, not for the hours of day alone, 

But the still hours when he sleepeth ; 

And for every prayer he saith, 

And every sigh of longing breath 

To Heaven ascending. 

God borroweth of our poor store with pleasure ; 

Yea, giveth thanks to us for lending. 

But oh ! He payeth beyond measure ; 

For all is paid from an infinite treasure, 

A love which is unending. 

And therefore all in earnest truth 
The Master saith : 
" Thanks for thy patient faith, 
And for the service of thy youth." 



GAME AND EARNEST. 



" Herewith the Fiend is overcome." 
This word was spoken low and near ; 
How, I know not, not to my ear ; 
But well I know wherefrom. 
Nothing I saw. Nothing was there 
In all my chamber anywhere, 



GAME AND EARNEST. 21 5 

Nothing at all, 

Save only my bed ; 

Save only the Cross that hung on the wall ; 

Save only the Christ with the Bleeding Head. 

Then saw I the eyes of Jesus gleaming 

From under the crown of thorn, 

And, to my sight and seeming. 

They glistened with scorn. 

And methought I gleaned. 

From His scornful air and under talk, 

That Our Lord was making mock 

Of the malice of the Fiend. 

And in that hour 

I came to know, ' 

As never before, the power 

Of Christ, His passion over the foe. 

Ever and alway the foul Fiend burneth 

With hatred of the Cross. 

Ever and alway Christ's passion turneth 

That hate to his own dear loss. 

Bitter his lot. 

Whether he work or he work not. 

Cometh to us thereby much pain, 

But yet (Christ helping) sweeter gain. 

Now ever yet, when I recall 

That Cross and Christ upon the wall. 

My spirit boundeth ; 

And in my soul still soundeth 

That word which broke the silence of my room : 

"Herewith the Fiend is overcome." 

II. 

Now, sooth to say and verily. 
When I saw our Lord make scorn 



2l6 GAME AND EARNEST. 

Of the Fiend from under the bleeding thorn, 

1 laughed right merrily. 

Yea, glad would I have been 

Had all my even Christian seen 

What then I saw, and laughed with me. 

In truth, Our Lord laughed not, 

As to my sight ; 

But well I wot 

That He mocked at the foe 

His malice and broken might. 

And the overthrow 

Of his cruel craft. And verily 

It pleased Him when I laughed so merrily. 

Now presently, when I bethought 

That Christ laughed not, 

I fell suddenly sad ; and I said : 

" Woe 's me for the Bleeding Head ! 

Here is both game and earnest. 

O Christ ! I see game 

In the shame 

Of the Fiend whom Thou scornest. 

And in his labor's loss. 

But ah ! what tongue can tell the price 

Of that sacrifice 

Which gave this power to the Cross ? 

'T is easy for me to mock the Fiend, 

Who, save my soul's hurt when I sinned. 

Bring from the fight no scar ; 

But He who conquered in the war, 

And met the hazards of the hour. 

Can only scorn the demon's power 

From a bleeding brow, 

And a Cross of woe." 



yOY AND PAIN. 217 



JOY AND PAIN. 



Two tides prevail in the human breast, 

And they make or mar our rest. 

The fickle currents come and go 

With alternating ebb and flow ; 

And, fluctuating to and fro. 

Now pleased we ride 

On a full flood-tide, 

Now low in the breakers buffet. 

This is God's gracious dealing. 

Long to linger in one feeling 

Brings to the soul no profit ; 

But, if in patience we abide 

And do God's holy will, 

Faileth no grace ; equally well 

We thrive in either tide. 

But yesterday the sky was bright. 
My soul was all illumed with light. 
" Nothing shall part me from thy side," 
With brave St. Paul I cried. 
And now again, lost in the night. 
And sinking in the wave, 
I shout with Peter terrified : 
" I perish. Jesus, save ! " 



Betimes in comfort, whiles all comfort gone 
Betimes to feel God's helping hand, 
And whiles all desolate to stand 
And struggle on alone. 



2l8 yOV AND FAIN. 

So would He have us learn, 

Through every changeful turn, 

To live by faith, not feeling ; 

In weal or woe 

To trust His holy dealing ; 

His hand to know. 

For His hand forever guideth us 

In one same surety. 

And the great Rock that hideth us 

Is full security. 

Yea, though sometimes in sore dejection, 
Trembling like one in dereliction, 
A loving soul go bending. 
It may not be for punishment ; 
Happen a boon from Heaven sent ; 
Happen a grace which love is lending. 
Betimes the pain that I am in 
Seems all too sudden to be for sin ; 
And whiles the joy that floods my spirit 
Is too soon gone to be for merit. 
In joy and pain one hand I see ; 
Forever blessed may it be ! 
These are God's kindly dealings ; 
And it shall be my strong endeavor, 
Yea, firm determination, never 
To yield me to sad feelings. 
But rest in holy comfort ever. 

Oh ! pain is passing, measured, tempered. 
To them that be of God's salvation. 
Cometh a bliss unmeasured, and unhampered, 
And endless in duration. 



LOVE'S GREATEST PAIN. 2ig 



LOVE'S GREATEST PAIN. 



Oh ! 't was a heavy passion ! 

Oh ! 't was a weary pain ; 

And, though I saw it not 

Except in thought, 

Except in such a form and fashion 

As things are painted in the brain, 

I would not dare, 

For all the world I could not bear 

To see it so again. 

Said I, in my soul's bitterness : 

" Is hell pain more than this ? " 

Quick and sharp came the reply, 

To my reason it was answered : "Ay, 

For there, and only there, 

Grief is bottomed in despair." 

Yet, of all the pains that lead to bliss. 

The pains to hearts in hope which offer, 

No keener woe is found than this — 

To love, and see love suffer. 

Alas ! I saw Him on the Rood 

Down bowing ; 

Alas ! I saw the purple flood 

Down flowing ; 

I saw in His fair face the color 

Coming and going. 

And alternating with deep pallor. 

Oh ! it was heart-rending ! 

Life and death I saw contending. 

As wrestlers put forth their full power, 

From burning noon to the ninth hour. 



220 LOVE'S GREATEST PAIN. 

Christ knows if that keen grief of mine 

Were earth-born, or divine ; 

Christ knows if sacred charity 

Gave me such pain ; 

But methought no sorrow could come to me 

Ever again, 

Like the sorrow I felt then. 

Cometh a day that shall disclose, 

Christ knows, 

I would that day were now begun — 

Yea, done. 

II. 

Now, when the sorrow of my own sad heart 

Had passed in part, 

I thought of that dear innocent dove 

Our Lady Mary, who stood by His side 

When He was crucified ; 

All through that burning mid-day clove 

So fondly to His side, — 

All through the bitter dying, till He died. 

And then I saw more plain 

How the greatness of Her love 

Was the greatness of Her pain. 

For, in kind, Her love was a mother's ; 

But it passed all mothers' in degree. 

Ah then, how could it be 

Her grief should not surpass all others ? 

Dear Lady, I in sorrow 

Do pity Thy love's great agony ; 

Yea, fain would my poor bosom borrow, 

If so it might, more love from Thee. 



IN CHRIST S PA SSI ON A LL SUFFER. 2 2 1 



HOW IN CHRIST'S PASSION ALL SUFFER. 



When the Lord Christ was slain 

Upon the Cross of Calvary, 

All creatures suffered in His pain. 

Each in its kind, and in its own degree, 

Had feeling then 

As of some fearful drain 

Of vital force, 

Of life subsiding at life's source. 

Needs must be some such sympathy 

Between the creature and the Deity. 

Knoweth itself the blind stone 

And clingeth to itself alone. 

Against all other unions it rebelleth, 

Attraction scorneth, force repelleth, 

Yet, by what sense it loveth, and feareth. 

By that same sense, and in like measure, 

It knoweth the mighty divine pressure, 

By which its own low life cohereth. 

Well, then, what wonder 

That solid rocks should sunder 

When Christ was slain ! 

All Nature, with a common heart. 

Took common part 

In the common pain. 

His friends all suffered then and there ; 

And all that love Him now must bear 

His Cross and thorny Crown. 

These are not His alone ; 

They are our own. 



222 IN CHRIST'S PASSION ALL SUFFER. 
II. 

All suffered when the Saviour died. 

The spring of every comfort failed, 

All human joy had turned to weeping, 

And one drear midnight had prevailed 

Save for that mighty secret keeping 

Which God for the time supplied. 

All suffered then ; yea, well I wot, 

Both they that knew Him, and that knew Him not. 

Beneath the Rood, 

Hardened to suffering and blood, 

A sentry soldier, on his beat. 

Paced back and forth with haughty stride ; 

But when the earth shook beneath his feet, 

With altered mien and chastened mood, 

Humbled to worshipping he cried ; 

" Sure this was the Son of God ! " 

And we that are not pagan, nor infidel, 

But know Him well. 

With all that marvellous history 

Of birth, and youth, and life, and teaching. 

By faith of Holy Church and her true preaching. 

And the deep mystery 

Of penance, and each sacrament of grace ; 

And hope ere while to see His face 

On some sweet blissful morrow, 

Oh say ! 

Shall we not weep to-day ? 

Not one sore pang from His deep Passion borrow ? 

From His full heart 

Not one keen quivering dart, 

To make up our poor part ? 

Shall He hang thus in solitary pain, 

While cold and placid we remain. 



IN CHRIST'S PASSION ALL SUFFER. 223 

Though rocks are rent in twain, 

And skies 

Close their bright eyes ? 

While robbers pray, 

And pagan kneel, 

Are we less quick than they 

To think, and feel ? 



GRADUS AD TRINITATEM. 

A SERIES OF 

MEDITATIONS 

ON THE INNER LIFE OF GOD. 



525 



GRADUS AD TRINITATEM, 



MEDITATIONS ON THE INNER LIFE 
OF GOD. 



The verses which follow, grouped under the 
above heading, not only constitute a series of 
meditations, but are so constructed and graduated 
as to present an argument for the doctrine of the 
Holy Trinity. Although the words of Sacred 
Scripture are sometimes used, for the benefit of 
those who meditate, no appeal is intended to the 
authority of Revelation. The argument is simply 
and purely one of analogy, reasoning from the in- 
telligent though finite soul as we find it existing in 
Man, to that infinite Spirit which we name God. 
The poems lead us forward and upward by degrees, 
or Steps, which are explanations of certain philo- 
sophical truths, without a correct understanding of 
which no one is competent to discuss the subject, 
or meditate upon it. 

By reading each Step carefully and keeping the 
whole series in mind when completed, the reader 
will have a very condensed but complete argument, 
affording a rational basis for the great doctrine 
which lies at the foundation of the Christian faith. 
227 



228 GRADUS AD TRINI TA TEM. 

Religion cannot part from this doctrine without 
ceasing to be Christianity. 

Each Step carries the mind onward toward the 
grand conclusion, that the life of God consists of 
the simultaneous action of three distinct personages 
dwelling together in the unity of one same being. 

The course of argument stated in prose is sub- 
stantially as follows : 

That the unity of God is not abstract but con- 
crete ; in other words, that it is made up of essen- 
tial elements which constitute the fulness of the 
divine life. That God is necessarily a being of 
infinite activity. That the interior working of His 
life is not, however, like ours — a succession of acts, 
but one eternal and simultaneous act. That, in 
the same way that thought and will are the 
elements of action in the soul of man, so also in 
thought and will we must expect to find the ele- 
mentary action of divine life in God. That, in 
both God and man, thought is an inward word 
spoken by the mind to itself alone, and remaining 
with the speaker, distinct but not disunited. That, 
in man, this distinction between thought and the 
mind which gives it birth is imperfect ; but, in 
God, thought, or the inborn Word, being like the 
parent intellect perfect and infinite, rises to the 
full dignity of a distinct personality ; and thus the 
Son is equal in all respects to the Father. And, 
lastly, that these two august Persons, so infinite in 
grandeur, goodness, and beauty, and dwelling thus 
together face to face in the intimacy of one divine 
life, necessitates the origin of a mutual divine 
Love, proceeding from both, infinite like both, and 
distinct from either. This is the Holy Cxhost, last 
of the Three only in the order of logic, but, in liv- 
ing reality, co-infinite and co-eternal with the Father 
and the Son. 



THE UNITY OF GOD. 229 



THE UNITY OF GOD. 



When I say God is one — one what ? 

One and no more ? An abstract thought ? 

An useful summary of all we know, 

Or all that thought can reach unto ? 

The Pantheist's all ? Creation's whole ? 

Nature's blind instinct ? The world Soul ? 

Oh, no ! I mean the living God 

That really is, that lives, that moves, 

That acts, and thinks, and wills, and loves, 

And rules all being with a nod ; 

Holding His own life free • 

Asking no leave to be ; 

In His own self a wealth of being ; 

A sum of infinite contents ; 

A total of constituents 

In one grand life agreeing ; 

All infinite, all reaching forth as far 

As the great life whose components they are. 

II. 

If God were simply unity 

Embracing no plurality, 

His being would be a wilderness. 

Where then would be His loveliness ? 

Beauty from graceful order springs ; 

But order is the due relation 

Of things to things. 

What 's a life circle without inner rings ? 

God is no abstract thing. He is concrete. 

Relations multiplex in Him unite 

In order. Heaven's first law, and thus complete 

A beauty various, august, infinite. 



230 THE ACTIVE LIFE OF GOD. 

God is a thoughtful, conscious King, 
Knowing Himself, with far more light 
Reflected on that inward sight 
Than all the skies on science fling, 
Though age on age accumulate the offering. 



THE ACTIVE LIFE OF GOD. 



Action is a being's breath. 

Life lives by its own unrest. 

Beats the quick heart ; heaves the warm breast ; 

Stillness is the state of death. 

Whatever lives must needs be stirring ; 

Action is law for all the living. 

To be evermore begetting, bearing, 

Increase of itself outgiving. 

Product of its activity, 

Fruit born to its fecundity, 

Is the sole sign to one and all 

That a living thing hath life at all. 

" Speak ! " Angelo said, and struck the stone. 

The marble Prophet responded naught. 

No soul was there to yield a thought ; 

No life to give a groan. 

Shall reason reduce to marble death 

The Lord of life, the King of breath ? 

Who therefore thinks of God as still 

Is either deeply ignorant, or infidel. 

Ah ! since through nature the law holds good ; 

Since life must needs have work to do ; 

What force majestic must move through 

The ever heaving Soul of God ! 



i 



GOD'S LIFE-MOVEMENT ONE ACT. 23 I 



This is the law of fecundity : 

Be it little, or be it great, 

Productive life must generate 

In the measure of its activity. 

No less result can satisfy 

The cravings of its state. 

The world therefore is a thing too small 

To occupy God's mind, and fill it all. 

God is infinite Life in motion ; 

One infinite wave swells an infinite ocean. 

His mind is a measureless womb ; 

And the only adequate issue therefrom 

Is a thought, an inward Word, a birth 

Vast as the source which gives it forth ; 

A Child (like the parent) divine, 

In whom the same attributes combine ; 

The Father's image and delight. 

And, like Himself, all infinite. 

O Christ ! herein I name Thee. 

Thou first, and last, and only Word 

In that divine life circle heard, 

Hereby I claim Thee. 

And, though unguided on the road 

My untaught intellect 

The wondrous truth would scarce suspect, 

Yet, light once given, I know my God. 



THE WHOLE LIFE-MOVEMENT OF GOD IS 
BUT ONE ACT. 



Say ! when did Heaven's high history begin ? 
What field were God's first mighty steppings in ? 



232 GOUS LIFE-MOVEMENT ONE ACT. 

Ere the first angel flew, the first hght shone, 

Ere stars in clusters budded, suns into disks were 

blown ; 
Ere on their poles they span, into their orbits 

whirled ; 
What was God doing ere He made the world ? 
How did grand thought, born in the boundless 

past, 
Rouse the pulsations of a soul so vast ? 
We know how this our lower world goes on. 
Man's life is measured by successive acts ; 
Coming events supplant the finished facts ; 
New thoughts and new desires the old dethrone. 
How was it when God lived alone ? 
Is that majestic life thus marked by tracks ? 

Methinks far other should that movement be, 
Where the moving wave is soundless ; 
Where the power to move is boundless. 
There a breath should supply eternity ; 
There reason should have so vast a reign 
That Thought, forth issuing from her throne, 
Exhausting all that can be known, 
Should leave no need to think again. 
There going and return should meet 
Upon an endless track ; 
The past lie forward, and the future back ; 
And one pure Act make life complete. 



II. 

*T is time marks life by ever changing scenes. 
In the eternal world nothing begins. 
Naught ends. This episode of time and space 
Far underneath God's inner life takes place. 
God is eternal, does not live in time. 



THE ELEMENTS OF DIVINE ACTION. 233 

'T is only finite creatures, such as men, 

That think, and rally thought to think again ; 

That step by step to new conclusions climb ; 

That leave behind the embers of old fires. 

And with new fuel kindle new desires. 

God's first life-step is all one with His last ; 

His first breath still remains unspent ; 

His changeless mind is still intent 

On the same thought that wrought there in the 

past. 
In God's far future dawns the early morn 
When Word divine to life divine was born ; 
When, by one motion, Thought eternal came, 
And co-eternal Love broke into flame. 
What was, and is, and is to be, 
Are vain distinctions in eternity. 
The present there with past and future dwells 
All parallel, and interwreathing ; 
One long exhaustless breath fills the life cells, 
And needs no second breathing. 



THOUGHT AND WILL THE CONSTITUENT 
ELEMENTS OF DIVINE ACTION. 



God knows His creatures ; but He needs them not. 
By Him we live and move ; yet share no part 
In that great tide of life which floods His heart. 
Its bosom bears us, but outside we float. 
We cannot see God ; little of Him we know. 
Mere glowworms of the dark, we grope below, 
Holding dim torches to the paths of night. 
And in its shadows seek for higher light. 
Yet are we in our Maker's image made, 



2 34 THE ELEMENTS OF DIVINE ACTION. 

Faint and imperfect though the copies show ; 
And something of the great Original may know 
By study of His traits in us portrayed. 

Thought, Will ; behold in these the two life-wings 

Whereby a spirit into action springs ! 

From these two motors therefore rise and meet 

Those life relations which God's unity complete. 

Help, Lord, our feeble minds to scrutinize 

The mystic streams which flood Thine arteries, 

And blend their currents in one life concrete ! 

n. 

God knows Himself. ' With this high wisdom 

fraught. 
His mind grasps all that being has to show. 
Nothing but pale reflections glow 
Outside that primal horizon of thought. 
God clings to His own being ; and herein 
Lies hid a joy unclouded and serene. 
God looks, desires. That motion all in-moving, 
Act duplicate of seeing and of loving. 
Alone can satisfy the measureless behest 
Of His all-searching eye, all-craving breast. 
Man must first look, then love. Love follows sight. 
That which is first in order must be first in time. 
It is not so in that vast Soul sublime 
Where all is co-eternal, infinite. 
God looks and loves ; quick thought finds thought's 

ideal 
Beaming with beauty in the true and real. 
Deep mirrored in His own self-consciousness. 
Thus gazing on the wealth of His own loveliness, 
His vision kindles into infinite desire ; 
And in the flame of that exhaustless fire 
Is seated God's eternal happiness. 



CHARACTER OF DIVINE THOUGHT. 235 



THE CHARACTER OF A DIVINE 
THOUGHT. 



Say ! tell me, what is thought ? First, thought in 

man ? 
It is an inward, inborn word, 
To the speaker spoken, by him only heard. 
And resting where its life began. 
'T is said. 'T is born. It lives, for good or ill. 
And yet no curious ear outside can reach 
The accents of that cloistered speech ; 
The letters of that word no eye can spell. 

So thought in God is a word divine. 
Deep spoken in that Soul's far centre. 
Vibrating mighty sound, and yet so fine 
That, should the detonations enter 
And thunder in an angel's ear. 
Unconscious of the flood, he could not hear. 
What ! could he touch life infinite alive ? 
Could his dull senses pierce the eternal seals ? 
Could his slow vision follow the turn of the wheels 
Where the genius of God doth drive ? 



Man thinks ; God thinks. Yet mark the differ- 
ence. 
God's inner Word is perfect and unbroken ; 
Says all that can be thought or spoken 
In one eternal present utterance. 
It cannot have, and needs not, repetition. 
It takes in all, leaves room for no addition ; 
Large as the Mind whence it doth emanate, 



236 MIND AXD THOUGHT DISTINCT 

And with that Mind's long life commensurate. 
It must be so, O infinite eternal Soul ! 
For all in substance is the same in Thee ; 
And aught that praise can name in Thee 
Is equal to the all-circling whole. 



MIND AND THOUGHT DISTINCT IN ONE 
LIFE. 



Is thought distinct from that which thinks ? 
Yea, surely ; when I name the one 
I do not mean the other. Each is known 
By lineaments of its own. Yet both are links 
Of one same life, and cannot live alone. 
Substantially, essentially, the two are one. 
So mind and thought exist in reasoning man. 
And so in God where mind and thought began. 

A thought is born ; an inward word is spoken, 

The silence of one soul alone is broken. 

In that life-circle where it first found birth. 

There it abideth. 

Shut from the outside world at home it hideth ; 

A truant from that fold goeth not forth. 

There face to face each eyeth either, 

The ghostly breath, and the thoughtful breather. 

Mind measures the offspring it begot. 

And in turn is canvassed by its thought. 

Subjective sight, and object seen, 

Freely change place behind the screen. 

Thus, face to face in loving unison. 

Distinguishable always, always one. 

At the domestic hearth sit sire and son. 

So ever life intelligent goes on. 



IN ONE LIFE. 237 

Can it seem strange that a like spirit-wonder 
Should underlie God's life, since ours it lieth under ? 



In man distinction between mind and thought 

Is incomplete, is an imperfect one. 

Thought has in us no self-subsistence of its own, 

Is always partial and dependent. It derives 

Outside itself the power by which it lives. 

Uprising like a mirage from the sand. 

It fades soon back into the parent land. 

One man is never a community ; 

Never to full perfection can he bring 

Within the compass of his little ring 

The mystery of plural life in unity. 

Not so in God. His wondrous life goes on 

All spent within Himself. In Him the eternal 

year 
Is rounded by a thought that fills its sphere, 
And finds there all it needs to feed upon. 
God's Thought is full ; has life in its totality ; 
Lacks naught ; can see, hear, feel, and freely 

move ; 
Can think, desire, appropriate, and love. 
And rises therefore to a perfect personality. 

God thus is truly several and one ; 
A royal Family upon a single throne ; 
A full community that lives alone. 
Contemplating His own image, God can say. 
With all a Father's pride, that joyous Word 
Which David, rapt in inspiration, heard : 
" My Son ! I have begotten Thee to-day.'' 
To-day ; a day which has no morn, no close ; 
That hourless day which changeless Being knows. 



238 THE GENESIS OF LOVE. 



THE GENESIS OF LOVE ; OR, THE PRO- 
CESSION OF THE HOLY GHOST. 

I. 

The birth of thought is life, but not life's whole. 
'T is not the term where living rests complete. 
A twofold action in one soul must meet ; 
And this united movement makes life full. 

Mind thinks. Then quick a second motion springs. 
Will follows thought ; desire takes flame from sight ; 
The eager soul expands in the warm light. 
Life always flies upon these twofold wings. 

Thought is an outlook of the spirit moved 
By thirst for truth, which to herself she draweth ; 
But love, a voluntary exile, out-doors goeth 
To lose her life in that of the beloved. 

Love springs from mind, the pensive soul's desire. 
Love also is the product of the thought, 
By which to the loved object mind is brought 
And introduced. Two breaths light one same fire. 

Behold a wonder ! Here is more than one. 

Love is distinct from mind, and both from 

thought ; 
Yet all in one same life are interwrought. 
Another wonder ! Lo, here one alone. 

Thus, in the creature typified, we find 
The mystery of relations, — life made full 
By threefold unity ; grouped in one soul 
Thought, Will, and Memory or abiding Mind. 



CIRCUMINCESSION. 239 



Lift now adoring eyes to that high path 

Where, wrapped in mystery, walking in wealth of 

light 
Which radiates inward ; hid to all outer sight, 
But gleaming to His own, God draws celestial 

breath. 

There face to face stand co-eternal Son and Sire. 
The primal Mind, and first-born Science gaze 
Into each other's eyes ; and from the rays 
Comes forth an august Form in robes of fire, 

Primordial Love. Thus born to sight reciprocal, 
A third term of relation standeth out 
In sure relief ; is infinite ; lacks naught 
That life can have to make life personal. 

Hail ! holy Charity, love's throb in Wisdom's breast ! 
Ranged last in order of the sacred Three, 
Yet ancient as the oldest in Thy family. 
And with one rule co-reigniag with the rest. 

Lo, closed complete the cycle of fecundity ! 
The Son exhausts divine intelligence, 
The Holy Ghost divine benevolence. 
And life divine is perfect in the Trinity. 



CIRCUMINCESSION. 



O depth of mystery ! How doth the Father dwell 

Forever in the Person of the Son ? 

How doth the Son with Him share that life cell 



240 CIRCUMINCESSrON. 

Where His own princely being was begun ? 
How, close embracing and embraced by both, 
Doth Love eternal, primal, infinite outgrowth 
Of These, live in each life, and hold each in His 

own ? 
'T is so. Breath with breath breathing, inter- 
crossed. 
Not merged, not lost, Sire, Son, and Holy Ghost 
Their everlasting cycle of existence run. 
This truth I hold. I know it well ! 
But how 't is so I cannot tell. 



Joint tenants of Their vast freehold. 
Shareholders in a being one but multifold, 
Co-currents of the same almighty wave, 
Each ranging in the depth of Each doth lave. 
Backward and forth, and through and through, 
With full, free interchange of interpenetration. 
With an exhaustless, simultaneous flow, 
Rolls triple life through the great Oversoul. 
O wealth of action, motion, beauty, variation ! 
O unity of wisdom, power, and plan in concentra- 
tion ! 
O lavish Godhead, spending all at once its whole 
Of breath, yet losing naught by the deep respira- 
tion ! 

III. 

Oh, could my proud ambition but prevail ! 
Oh, could I hope to lift some day the veil 
Which shrouds that cycle where the mystic Three 
In beauty, love, and joy pass Their eternity ! 
Doth not the vision promised God's elect 
Reach forth so far ? Will not some sense, direct 



THE HOMESTEAD OF THE TRINITY, 24I 

Or indirect, some gift of supreme grace, 
Some Heaven-printed pass be given (perhaps to me) 
To enter that charmed cloister of the Trinity, 
And look and gaze on Each as on familiar face ? 



THE HOMESTEAD OF THE TRINITY. 



There is a home older than oldest history ; 

Primordial residence of sequestered lives. 

Eye never gazed into its deep archives ; 

Time never chronicled its years of mystery. 

No sounds vibrate along that sacred air 

Save native voices and footfalls familiar there. 

Sufficient to itself life there has no new wants ; 

Old thought is fresh, old beauty still enchants. 

There filial piety, and fond parental pride 

Lock hand in hand, sit side by side ; 

And, nestling close, sweet charity doth rest 

Her head with confidence on either breast. 

There Mind, and Thought, and Heart divine do meet 

In converse holy, high, and passing sweet. 

Truth utters all its wealth in wisdom's ear ; 

Eternity doth speak, eternity doth hear. 

Life, wisdom, love, and joy are all complete. 

So clusters life supreme in social cheer. 
So Father, Son, and Holy Ghost abide, 
A family of Three, their lives inwreathing 
In one enraptured and eternal breathing. 

How bold to stammer thus, thought dazed, tongue 

tied, 
Trying to tell how Heaven's chambers glow, 
Since all I give I glean by this dim light below ! 



242 LOVE DEALING WITH MYSTERY, 

II. 

To faith is given firmly to believe 

And take delight in many things 

Which weaker reason struggles to conceive. 

What art can sketch that conference of Kings ; 

In colors draw that transport of dilection, 

That inundating tumult of affection 

With which the Eternal Father flings 

Fond arms about His only Son ; 

While God the Son with burning lips still wrings 

Fresh life from lips whose speech that life begun ? 

What is it from each panting bosom springs ? 

Is it a Tongue cleft into wings of fire ? 

Is it a Dove with eyes of red desire ? 

Is it a loving Breath escaping from the Two, 

And in the breathing braided to life anew ; 

Claiming an equal age, and sudden growth 

To dignity with Either, and with Both ? 

I dare no more enquire : I fear to think ; 

So low my wretched fancies sink 

Beneath that high and holy dome. 

That glowing hearth, that golden home. 

I know but this : 

In that mysterious Family above 

Reigns lofty converse, sweet domestic love, 

And bliss, immeasurable bliss. 



LOVE DEALING WITH MYSTERY. 



An ancient Sage stood by the ocean shore 
And gazed into the ever-heaving deep. 
He watched its wayward tide that knows no sleep 
That swells, and falls, and swelling as before 
Goes breathing, breathing on forevermore. 



LOVE DEALING WITH MYSTERY. 243 

In vain he tried the mystery to trace, 
The secret of that panting life unlock. 
Bowling its waves against the rugged rock, 
And breaking up in myriad jets of grace, 
It flung contemptuous spray into his face. 

Her seat bewildered reason failed to keep ; 
Despair stepped in to take the place of pride. 
" Euripus, since I cannot grasp thy life," he cried, 
" Take all of mine ! " Then, with a frantic leap, 
He cast himself into the heedless deep. 

Oh, happy ! if like him, dear Trinity, 
Not out of baffled pride, not in despair, 
But, for the hope I feel, the love I bear, 
Casting myself into Thy deeper sea, 
I, too, could bury all life has of me ! 



What is infinity ? God's instantaneous and entire 
Possession of a life that knows no morn, no eve. 
Mind fails to grasp this firmly, though it may 

conceive. 
What matter ! Over-curious thought descend, 

retire ! 
But thou, O trustful love, take heart ! Go higher ! 

Grand fount of triune life, lo ! God the Sire ! 

What this implies I cannot fully tell. 

Yet this much I do know, yea, know it well — 

I also am His child. Lord ! feed the sweet desire 

I feel to draw near Thee, — nigher, still nigher ! 

O Son of God ! how fathom Thy deep genesis ! 
Then let it pass ! Enough for me to know 



244 LOVE DEALING WITH MYSTERY. 

What brought Thee, Saviour, to this world of woe. 
Be mine to weep, and follow each dear trace 
Of blood. Be satisfied, my soul, with this ! 

Spirit of God ! Heaven's gentle mighty breath, 

I comprehend Thee not : I can but name Thee. 

Yet every pulse of prayer and praise doth claim 
Thee. 

Mine are the Sacraments : Thou stirrest under- 
neath. 

Life — Love — live, love in Thee. All less is death. 



THE END. 



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